


Bury your Burden

by perryvic, Zaganthi (Caffiends)



Series: Kill Tonight [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF!John, Crimes & Criminals, Family, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Kink, M/M, Murder, Non Consensual, Organized Crime, Post Reichenbach, Subspace, Torture, cell phone games
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-15
Updated: 2012-09-09
Packaged: 2017-11-10 01:22:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 78,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/460664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perryvic/pseuds/perryvic, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caffiends/pseuds/Zaganthi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whoever had come up with all those hoary adages about if you love something, let it go free, love shared grows bullshit was a fucking asshole, and a liar and Sebastian Moran wasn't going to fall for it. He wasn't fucking noble, he was vicious and greedy and possessive. When he got something, no one took it away from him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

John had to admit that bear sausage didn’t taste as bad as gut instinct had told him it would. It reminded him vaguely of pork, and Seb had agreed, before adding a few more comparisons to animals that it had never crossed John’s mind to eat.

Still, there was bear sausage in the freezer, and Seb had dried large swathes of the thing into jerky that, with a little garlic, had also ended up tasting good. He had bags of the jerky stashed all over the place, and John had to admit that smugly pleased with a fading sunburn was a good look on Seb. He mostly wasn’t considering the new rug they’d also acquired or Seb’s wicked grin whenever he looked at it.

Harry was never going to let him live it down that he’d taken Seb all the way to Alaska to let the man hunt a grizzly bear, even if it had been a birthday/upcoming Christmas/next birthday gift. It wasn’t as if it had been a waste of a trip for John. He’d gotten a very passable camera from Seb, better than the cell phone shots he was used to taking of things, and had gotten to give it an extensive workout the whole trip, even with the cold fall air. 

The weather made England seem positively balmy by comparison. He never thought that after a vacation he’d be so eager to see November in London, but there it was.

It wasn't that he was particularly into hunting himself, but he had a partner who was and at least he had applied legally and it was sanctioned. And the look on Seb's face had made it worth it. He’d lit up like a kid and had been excited right up to the trip, and all through it. What was a good result was Seb's musings that he might just start writing again, as if the experience had kick started his own creativity. That would make it two of them, as John’s own books about some of his cases with Sherlock had now been published – their pick up probably due to his high profile, rather than any real particular writing ability. His blog of various cases and his recovery had been just as popular, to his amazement.

He still managed to do a few investigations along with Seb, on the more legal side of things, and that was fun. All in all things were looking pretty good. They'd even had given Baker Street a lick of paint and had plans to look at new kitchen fittings, with Mrs Hudson's approval. He smiled a little as he walked the last bit home, still limping and having his cane handy for all he could manage jogging in the morning with Seb sometimes. By the end of the day of the whole shift at St. Bart's, it still ached badly.

Sometimes, he thought it was the standing part of it, the standing and waiting that made him feel it worse, those moments when everything wasn't exciting, because it never seemed to bother him when he had a really horrible injury come across his surgical path. Occasionally, he wondered what happened to those patients after they passed out of his hands and on to ICU, if they survived. Mostly he tried to not linger on his own mortality, and focused on not getting shot again because the painful recovery lingered in his memory. After all, just because the work was legal didn't mean it was safe, or sane. The danger of the things Mycroft passed along hadn't stopped Seb from bringing John along on it, just as long as the danger John faced wasn't ending up in jail for getting involved in the darker side of his business.

It wasn't all sunshine and roses, but most days it was good. They fought occasionally, mostly out of fear and reaction, John supposed. Seb had managed to come home just the day before sporting a few interesting bruises and a persistent shoulder pain from getting into a confrontation with some upstart group that was moving into his territory, and that had been a good argument there. Never mind that Seb's territory was well established. Like any medieval kingdom, it faced a lot of upstarts who were interested in volleying a few rounds over the stone walls. John couldn't... quite manage to get Seb to disengage from the physical aspect of operations, but at least Seb had been training a few lieutenants to start handling the lesser day to day operations.

Most of them were still alive, John supposed, so that whole notion was going as well as could have been expected. 

Seb now had back-up, trusted back up and that was a better situation for them all. It meant more time to spend with their respective families although Harry had been on again off again with Clara for the last year or so and that meant intermittent contact. He was contemplating working on the Irene Adler story, even though Mycroft was not amused even though he had promised to reinvent them. He described his books as fictionalized versions of true crimes, but Mycroft did not like the Royal connection at all, so he might have to go with the Baskerville novel. The funny thing was that people tended to assume the truthful bits were the ones that were fictionalized because Sherlock's behaviour had been so outrageous so as to not seem real to ‘normal’ people.

Nearly home, and if he didn't want to eat more bear orientated stuff, he was going to have to cook. Something healthy as the Christmas party season would be kicking off. Greg had invited them round in a couple of weeks, and they were apparently going to Becks’ for Christmas itself. At least he'd done Seb's present already, though he would find a few small things. He supposed he'd still be eating bear sausages at Christmas, and that Seb would still be grinning that stupid goofy smirk every time he inflicted them on someone.

Home sweet home. Moving hadn't really crossed John's mind, even if he was uncomfortable with the amount of press presence that popped up from time to time -- though Seb's not untrue plea of PTSD had reared its head as he was getting out of the car when a reporter got close to him between the car and the door, and now they at least generally approached from a distance or even tried via phone when there was a bit reporter looking for god knew what. There was something unsettling about Seb when his eyes didn't lock but the fists kept swinging and hitting, the difference between that and Seb when he'd set out to put a fist through someone's face was quite sharp. Although the reporter on the receiving end probably wouldn’t have appreciated the finer points of why Seb had lashed out, even if John had patched him up afterwards and talked him out of pressing charges.

John unlocked the front door when he reached it, and was mindful to lock it behind himself again before starting up the stairs to the flat. He could hear quiet music, sounded like the radio, before he opened the door.

Seb was probably home, though he didn't usually listen to music. It could be TV on in the background or something. It was wise not to sneak up on Seb, so John made a point of being noisy, and when he stepped inside he called out, smiling to himself. "I'm not eating another one of those sausages, even if you have cooked dinner!"

"Whyever would I cook dinner?" He saw movement from the leather chair, watched a dark haired ghost stand up with a faint smile on his face. "John. You look well."

John just stood there, the cane slipping out of the grasp of his hand and clattering to the floor as his mind refused to comprehend what he was seeing.

Sherlock. Sherlock was standing there in front of him, hair still wild and curly, the cheekbones, the bright spark in the eyes. The voice, that unmistakeable tone, the voice that had broken him standing looking at the edge of roof as he fell. The recording that had broken him, everything that had _shattered_ him was standing there and it was like being shot all over again and he hadn't breathed since he heard that voice.

"John?" 

Sherlock took a step towards him, one hand halfway to reaching out, reaching to touch John’s shoulder. "John, I’m sorry that I had to..."

He didn't even think, because his emotions overloaded in that lightning strike of utter incomprehension and he lashed out in a punch, sharp. "You fucking bastard!" It was almost incoherent with the force of emotion behind is, as he felt something that had been healing slowly over break and rip raw all over again. He didn't know what was worse, the fact that Sherlock had been dead or the fact he was now alive because it meant he had chosen to stay away. Chosen to fool him and goddammit... The relief was swelling up, the pain sharper with it fighting for dominance inside of him.

John wasn’t sure which was worse, as the two mingled up in his chest while he watched Sherlock take a staggered step backwards, reaching up to hold his hand over his cheek. “I should be less surprised by that than I am. I understand you’re angry, John. I never expected it to take this long.”

And what was he meant to do with that? 

"I believed in you," he said in a low voice, tightly choked back from the yelling he wanted to do. "I was the only one that did. In the end I let it go and you were *dead*, because if you weren't you chose not to come back. Even when I asked. So many times. And now you're here, and I don't know whether to kill you myself or..."

Hold him to make sure he was real and that it wasn't a dream.

Silence held as Sherlock looked at him, and John couldn’t find other words, watching the old-familiar darting of eyes, picking up pieces of evidence of… what? His life in the flat? And doing what with it? His mouth compressed, but finally Sherlock said, “You could sit down. And I’ll make tea, and we can catch up.” That was almost polite, and it was dizzying, whatever Sherlock had deduced that had spun him towards an agonizingly polite response for Sherlock. “There was a raid on a forger’s den in the business district, and Colonel Moran will be there for some time bailing his men out of various jails.”

Sherlock was never polite. Something wasn't right, aside from the fact he was here and what the hell did that mean? He practically collapsed into his chair, feeling the pulse of his heart beat rushing in his inner ears. "I can't believe this. No, bollocks, I can and..." What the hell, what the ever fucking hell was going on? Losing Sherlock had destroyed him, but then he had found Seb.

It wasn't a one for one trade, they were different. Vastly... vastly different, but it had gotten him through, and now. Now this. That gaping wound in his chest had stopped hurting so much, and now Sherlock was back? 

"I needed to be sure there was no retribution against you. There were plans under plans, and they all needed to be unravelled. I had an unlikely ally in this."

"An... unlikely ally?" John asked. His tongue felt thick and clumsy in his mouth. Irene? Had to be Irene.

How the hell had she kept that from him? "Yes. And Colonel Moran, after a fashion. When one re-organizes a criminal network, even subtly, it's surprising what sorts of elements are abandoned or murdered to end loose ends." He could hear him opening and shutting cabinets, running water in the kitchen.

He still couldn't believe it. The problem was he wasn't entirely sure what he was going into shock over. "I watched you die Sherlock," he said in a voice that sounded weak even to him. Fucking hell, this better had been some sort of save the world thing because...

"I know. I wasn't..." He heard hesitance. "I'm sorry I did that to you, John, but it was necessary. You needed to believe I was dead."

“I didn't. I didn't believe it." Despite the blood on his fingers and death in the air that was real, he hadn’t believed that Sherlock, a veritable tornado of life, could have ended like that. And that had left him a lone voice at the time, paralysed with grief and need. The old feelings were there, the feelings of everyone thinking him deluded and insane. "Don't you dare tell me it was for the best. You have no idea Sherlock, no fucking idea."

"I think I have some idea. Three years on the run from trained assassins, either waiting for your lover to realise they were operating outside of his orders and kill them, or finding enough evidence to hand them over to local police." Something clinked in kitchen, and then Sherlock came out carrying the tea tray.

"Then why didn't you come to me. To us?" John said. "To Mycroft?" If Mycroft had known all along he was going to... He had no idea what he was going to do.

He was going to strangle the man. He was going to get Seb to strangle the man for him, then resuscitate him so he could strangle him again.

"My brother is at enough risk. He has his suspicions, as did Colonel Moran. Then again, I heard he also suspected Moriarty was still alive." He set tea-cups down, started to pour as well. Like everything was normal.

Seb knew? Seb had *known* and didn't say anything? After he had given him that faint hope before, and then run after him? "I see. So *everyone* else knew aside from me is that what you are saying?" John said slowly, some of the chaos inside of him becoming cold, and sharp and dangerous. "And it was for my own good?"  
"Just Mycroft and Irene. I would say that Colonel Moran had more of a lingering suspicion, and given Irene's occasional lack of subtlety, I can see how that suspicion occurred. But yes, it was for your own good. If I contacted you, there was still a chance that you would be targeted. And Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade as well."

He just sat there and breathed for a while because he didn't trust himself to say anything. His anger stirred at Mycroft. He'd taken a bullet for the man and he'd hidden this. Sworn to him Sherlock was dead. All this protection had meant nothing, he'd nearly died anyway, trying to save one last bit of Sherlock in his brother.

He shouldn't have. He shouldn't have -- fuck, he still would have, but fuck. He closed his eyes for a moment, heard Sherlock sit down across from him. Heard, vaguely, movement up the stairs and the front door open. 

"John, you should've seen the look on Blakemore's face when I bailed him out. He looked at the cop and went 'Oh god, please don't release me, let me stay the night, le... Fucking hell."

"Good evening, Colonel Moran."

He probably looked more like a ghost himself than Sherlock, but his eyes immediately snapped open at the sound of Seb's voice. And he still didn't know what to say or do.

"Sherlock's alive," he said finally because so what if it were banal, he couldn't say what he wanted to say.

"Yeah, I can sort of fucking see that." He didn't turn and look, but heard Seb crossing the floor towards his chair, felt Seb's hand settle in a tight clutch against his shoulder. "How the fuck. Christ, I was right. Fuck. You and Irene and those fucking texts, fuck!"

"Quite. That's very eloquent, one would never know you had good schooling." Sherlock sipped at his tea. "I'm sorry, John."

"No, you're not." John said quietly. "No, you're not because you think you did it for the best. You... All of you decided what I could handle or not and you chose *wrong*." He struggled to get up. "Fuck this shit. I need some air."

Seb let go of him, but looked a little stunned. "What the hell did I do? I didn't, I confronted Irene and she said I was delusional..." And he was still staring at Sherlock like maybe he was, but fuck it.

John didn't want to speak to either of them, he just wrenched away and headed off out the door, away from standing there face to face with everything he had ever wanted given back to him, just when he had changed all his dreams and was happy. He didn't want to think that he had been tricked and part of him knew this was a bad reaction and he just didn't want to say something he’d regret right now. He had gotten used to holding it all inside, just letting that wound sit there unhealed until the pain of it was something normal to the way he lived.

He walked fast, fast as he could, hunched up into his coat as he limped along. It didn't feel normal now, it was agonizing, it was, fuck, Sherlock was *alive* and he just showed up and expected everything to be okay? Which, fine. It was Sherlock, and the world revolved around Sherlock Holmes, and John Watson was only secondary. Fuck.

After a few minutes, he felt someone fall into pace with him, and he didn't have to look to see who it was. There was no sense in trying to outpace Seb, and Seb at least was quiet beside him. Irritatingly present, but quiet.

He didn't even know where he was going. It was an aimless walk from Baker Street out into London and he could half wish for someone to try *something* because he wanted to hit something. Right now he could understand Seb and his need to fight perfectly... But he didn't want to hurt him. Although given long enough and the rage just sat there, coiling around him, squeezing the breath out of him until he felt physically sick with it, he might just want to really hurt anyone.

And then Seb nudged his shoulder lightly, steered him down a quieter narrow street. "John, C'mon. You're going to fuck up your leg."

He whirled on him, wanting to hit out at Seb but just… holding back. Just making a noise he didn't recognise himself. "Just don't. I..." He had to force his fist to unclench although he was shaking with the effort.

And Seb knew all the signs of an impending fight. Sometimes John wondered if he could smell it in the air. He backed John up against the wall, close and giving John no room at all. "I know you're fucking pissed. Well, be fucking pissed. I didn't know, and yeah, Irene worked me over good with that."

"You should have told me what you suspected," John said, found his hand gripping in Seb's shirt. "You... I told you about Jim, I was wrong but I told you. Then you knew, at least you knew."

"It hurt. I knew the first time, but I..." Seb pressed his forehead against John's. At least the wall was cold against his back, the back of his head, and there wasn't any going anywhere when he was pinned here. "I didn't want to inflict my fucked up delusions on you."

"I don't know what this means," John said finally. There was Sherlock and he hadn't been whole without him, but he wasn't going to lose Seb. He couldn't. "I don't know what any of this means."

"Me either. We'll figure it out." He slid a hand down, holding onto John at the hip.

He felt guilty for wanting Sherlock back so badly, when he had Seb and was perfectly happy with him. But as he closed his eyes he could still see Sherlock falling, and blood on the pavement, no pulse under his fingers. "He said it was to protect me. Us. Assassins Moriarty set in motion that you didn't know about. Is that possible?"

"Jim was fucking brilliant. It's possible." Seb nudged lips against his temple. "I can find out, if you'd like." He'd do anything John asked him to.

But he couldn't ask him to do things like that. Not now. It was true, he could have, it could be true, and what did that make him? A selfish git for not being grateful for the life Sherlock had been protecting. He had two choices: one, to regard Sherlock as selfish and a self-centred bastard who had no thought save for himself and feel good about himself, or to acknowledge Sherlock was alive and had been protecting his friends alone, on the run for three years and feel like the worst ungrateful little shit in the world.

It was possibly completely predictable what he would do, and he sighed as the guilt descended on him like a heavy weight, choking the fiery acid anger into check.

And Seb kept him pinned against the wall, thinking god knew what as he stood there. "I'll find out. And we'll... we'll figure this out. Promise to not do anything stupid and make this shittier, and I will, too."

"Aside from breathe?" John replied. Damn it, he was capable and decisive, and he could deal with this. "Okay. I'm okay, let’s go back. I've got to... deal with this. He did all this for me, us. The recording was proof of that."

"Yeah, okay." Seb leaned back a little, still lingering close. "You can still be pissed off. I highly recommend it."

"I've already hit him once. Not what I imagined doing," John answered. He'd imagined embracing him, hugging him, never letting go. But he hadn't even shaken his hand and said he was glad he was alive.

He was. He was sure he was, but he was angry and confused, and Sherlock had just shown up. Seb stepped back, and let John take a moment to get his bearings before they started a slower walk back. "It's sort of telling that you imagined him coming back," Seb pointed out quietly. "So, takeout?"

"Yeah, was going to cook but I've kind of lost my appetite a little." And his knees were wobbling a bit, but he was okay. Sherlock was alive and that really was a miracle.

Sherlock was alive, and he didn't know what came next, what... where Sherlock was staying, what came next, what... "Hey." Fingers squeezed his shoulders, and pulled gently at him as they walked. "Stay with me, hmn?"

"Sorry, I just. Too much to think about." Why did the memory of seeing him die seem more real than seeing him alive?

Because he'd spent more time with it. He'd spent the last two, almost three years with it without a day going past without the thought at least flitting through his mind somewhere and Sherlock had just come back. Like he'd popped out for bloody milk and gotten lost and finally remembered what he'd been doing. "Just don't want you veering off the sidewalk." There was a laugh in Seb's voice when he said it, but he also sounded like he was reaching. Nervous chuckle, not really Seb laughing. With his other hand, he flicked out his cell phone, absently firing off a couple of texts. 

They walked for a few more blocks, and John was starting to get a sense of just how far he'd stormed off. It was a good thing he hadn't had time to get his winter coat off, because it was dead cold even with Seb beside him. "So, I had to bail Blakemore out and he was all 'nooooo, boss is going to kill me, noooooo'. I turned him loose and he's sending me these bloody apology notes. Don't even have to do anything to him, he's torturing himself. It's fucking brilliant. Wait until he finds the dead crow in his bathtub in the morning."  
John quirked a smile at that. "At least it wasn't a bear," he managed aware that Seb was trying to distract him and knowing he was worrying him. He didn't want to worry him, and if their situations were reversed, he'd be worried. Actually, he'd probably be dead because Moriarty was like that, but.

He didn't know where Sherlock fit in his life anymore. He owed him, he had once loved him. Maybe he still did but he wasn't sure he was in love with him anymore. He just didn't know. For a while, he'd been sure that what he had with Sherlock transcended love. They were a matching set, had been for so very long, it had felt like.

"Wouldn't waste a bear on him." John could feel Seb's fingers massaging at his shoulder, still clutching him tight as they walked. "Keep an eye out for number six Chinese's delivery car. We can probably catch a ride with our order."

He wasn't sure he was going to be able to eat but Sherlock might be hungry. How to deal with it? Just sit there and ask him to tell the story? Let him have his say, then try and work out what he felt. Was he staying? Would it be a relief for him to leave? A surge of panic belayed that particular emotion. He didn't want him to leave again... But then he wasn't sure about him staying.

They got back to Baker Street in silence, as Seb gave up on carrying on a one sided conversation and just walked with John, fingers moving every so often, applying pressure to reel him back in every once in a while until they reached the door. "Ready to try this again?"

"Yeah." Running away didn't help anyone. He didn't do that. Back up the stairs, back into the flat and he pulled himself together the best he could as they re-entered.

It proved to not be enough, John realised as he reached the top of the steps, and stepped inside. Sherlock was a palpable presence in the room, always had been. He could smell takeout in the air.

"Oh good, you're back."

"I could say the same to you," he said trying for flippant where serious had not worked. "Okay, I'm dealing with it. Why don't you tell me… tell us, what the hell has been going on while we eat." And by then he might have figured out how to react.

Sherlock was still looking around the room, though John supposed he'd been up and standing and reacquainting himself with the place while they'd been out. Digging through god knew what. "It is both long and unexciting at the same time. As I said, there were elements nested under that original command which needed to be taken care of to ensure your continued safety. Those individuals have been taken care of, secured, either in custody or in final custody. I did keep abreast of your adventures, John. My commendation on solving the 'Bishop' issue, even if you did take a predictably military solution to the matter." 

Seb was in the kitchen, pouring something, getting forks because they usually gave up on chopsticks after so much time of trying. When he came back, he was carrying two beers as well, with a grim set to his jaw. "Didn't know if you drank."

John blinked. "I nearly died saving your brother," he said eventually. "Seb helped save him. Where were you?" Were those messages from him through Irene? They had to be, his instinct told him they were.

"At the time? Sicily, and then briefly London before I headed on to Belgrade. You had it well in hand, John." Well in hand. Well in *hand*? Fuck, and he'd been in London? "I saw you were recovering well, and saw no need to complicate matters by possibly putting you at further risk."

"You really are a bastard," Seb murmured, taking a swig of his beer and just standing there beside John's chair. "Fuck. John took a fucking bullet for your brother, and you didn't want to complicate matters? I, Christ."

"And you killed a man in cold blood, the man who killed your smuggler. Did it feel good?" There was a faint smile curling Sherlock's mouth, and he took another sip of his tea. "You know it did. I can see it on your face as you pull up the memory. Pupil dilation, hitch of the breath, it's like arousal. But you hesitate to say it in front of John, because you think one day your casual violence will be too much. You're just pretending to be a--"

John was still back at *Sherlock in London* when Seb launched himself at the man, snarling curses as he tackled him hard enough to knock the heavy chair backwards, Sherlock with it and Seb on top of him.

"Whoa, whoa..." John had to launch in between them, struggling to get the two of them apart. "Stop this... Ow, Jesus, stop this the pair of... Sherlock! Back off, Seb... "

Stepping between Seb and anyone was a bad plan, and this was not going well. It still wasn't anything he'd ever imagined, but it at least felt less surreal somehow, and--

* * *

Sherlock was aware of a spray of blood from his mouth and nose, head knocked sideways when he felt his elbow connect with something hard and then heard John go down. It was funny when one could tell the difference between one falling body and another, but that particular thud cut him short viciously. "Shit." Moran, swearing, shifting his attention from Sherlock on the ground to John on the floor, elevating his head and trying to get him propped up immediately. "Shit, c'mon, John, I." 

Sherlock had never really hit John before, not hit him and not pulled it. And with a bloody *elbow* of all things.

He didn't want to hurt John. Quite the opposite. How ridiculously stupid would it be to have spent all this time protecting him, to then injure him himself? It had been harder than he had thought and he thought that John was just impressed by him really, not emotionally connected to him because, really, even his own brother managed not to be affected too much. He’d assumed an understandable but ultimately shallow expression of feeling that would dry up in a short enough time. But he had watched John. Seen him. The limp was back, John's tell-tale of deep psychological distress for all the way he seemed to move on. Surely people could see that. Sherlock had thought he was the one making a sacrifice, one that led him straight through the hearts of some of the criminal undergrounds all over the world, but he hadn't thought he was making John a victim in the process. 

John was meant to live. 

"He's not coming around." Pulse was steady and almost calm though. Respiration even. 

"Hnn." Moran edged Sherlock back from John with a very carefully placed shoulder, even as he began to arrange John propped up against his chair with a telling level of familiarity. Sebastian's respiration was uneven, but not winded; the man had no lingering trace of tobacco on him, though Sherlock had seen a darkened patch on the wallpaper by the desk, a foot or so of space just to the left side of the window, as if someone regularly sat and leaned towards the window while smoking. "He will. You just short circuited him." Crude allusion, that. 

Sherlock wiped at his nose with a moment of interest in the blood splatter. "In some ways this has gone about as well as I expected."

Better in many ways, because though John had punched him -- which he had calculated to a point of near inevitability -- he had been surprisingly restrained. Moran had reacted now as he had predicted as well, but everything had come to a halt far too rapidly. John was fine, all the signals from his body was telling him that. He was probably just hiding from the situation in unconsciousness.

Moran was lingering, when there was nothing to do but move on, crouched down beside John and staying there, a hand slid under his winter coat, palm against his chest. "You've been fucking around for months now and you know it. Fuck. Why even bother coming back?"

"Because this is my home," he said, with an unspoken 'you idiot' lurking. "And, not that it matters to you, once it was safe I was always coming back. Untangling Moriarty's mess took time. He really did like to break his toys."

Moriarty hadn't just left a threat to John, he'd left dead man switch deals all over the world, in a last final fuck you to everyone. But he hadn't stayed away because of that, he'd stayed away because it would have gotten John killed. And now, well.

Now he was home, and John was at no more risk than he had been before. Still substantial enough to be interesting for the man, to keep his attention engaged. 

Moran looked over his shoulder at Sherlock, gaze assessing. There was blood on his knuckles, Sherlock’s own blood, but there was older blood as well, just from that day, faint and soaked up by the inner lining of a pair of gloves. There was a shaving scrape on the left side of his jaw, pulled in a way that implied injury to Sherlock. If the man tried to get the drop on him again, he’d know where to hit back that time; his right shoulder was pulling, a horrible place for a sniper to be injured. 

“What do you want?”

"I want my life back," he said immediately. "I want what I had before back. That shouldn't be too hard to understand, even for you." As for John, well... who knew? John's responses to him were complex and that made him unpredictable at the moment. But if he tried to get to John going through Seb, he would come to an unsubtle halt. "I want my friends back." He looked down at John who was stirring a little. He didn't have many, and he was possessive about the ones he had made. There, friends, not lovers.

Moran lowered his voice, fingers still lingering at John's side, which was unnecessary, really, because John wasn't able to process the sensation in any useful way. "Everyone moved on. Or tried to. People aren't clothes you can just shrug back into." His jaw moved sideways, an awkward motion that Sherlock supposed was self-calming, long habit. "And I'm not going anywhere."

"As you obviously sleep with John, my room is still empty," Sherlock said, noting the tell-tale signs. The familiarity, the ease, gestures that spoke of deep intimacy and not just fuckbuddies or friends. "There is no reason for me not to stay. If John tells me to leave I will, but..." He wouldn't. He knew John wouldn't make him go, even if it was for the sake of the mystery of finding out what happened.

John groaned a bit. "Jesus," came a mumbled groan. "What hit me?"

"Sherlock's elbow." Moran supplied that _oh_ so helpfully, shifting back enough that John could move without hindrance, could get himself upright. "That's a very dramatic way to break up a fight, by the way. Not seeing double, are you?"

He moved back, helping John to his feet. Sherlock needed something to mop his face up with, other than his fingers; takeout napkins seemed to do the job sufficiently. 

"Can we not do any more hitting?" John said getting up. "And apparently you didn't kill each other while I was out for the count. Good work."

Pupils slightly dilated, John was a little disorientated. Not a bad thing. "Moran and I were just agreeing that if you didn't want me to leave, I would use my room," Sherlock said. "As all my things are apparently still in the wardrobe there after three years."

Moran's jaw muscle twitched, and he was having an interesting anger reaction in terms of flushing on his neck, but silence was close enough to consent for Sherlock's sake just then. "My sister boxed them up after John took that bullet. Knowing her, there’ll be an inventory included as well."

"That's probably true," John said trying to shake his head clear. "I can't believe you're just...here."

"Do you want me to go?" Sherlock said diffidently, trying his bluff.

"No!" John said immediately and then hesitated. "No... I don't think so, if that's okay with you Seb?"

Seb, as if a violent criminal were some friendly and infinitely well trained rottie. Moran shrugged, a tight, calculated motion rather than anything natural. "'S fine. Whatever."

He resented Sherlock being there, that much was clear.

"Fine." Sherlock said. Considering he'd already unpacked his room, it was just as well, but it really was inevitable.

"You know what?" John said. "I think I've dealt with enough and my head is not exactly clear. I'm going to bed and I'll deal with this again in the morning when I've convinced myself this is real."

“Right. I’ll just clean up down here and then I’ll be up.” There was takeout to tidy up, apparently, and the spilled beer to deal with, and Moran was standing stiffly, watching John. Idiot.

John nodded and turned to him and just for a moment there was hint of that slight delighted smile he remembered from when the adrenalin was flowing and they were moving in tune. "Good night Sherlock."

"Tomorrow John," Sherlock replied, refusing to respond in kind as John trudged up the stairs.

Moran waited a beat, and then, rather than threatening him as Sherlock had been inclined to expect, started to pick things up to take them back to the kitchen, jaw tight but silent. "Well, well you really are trying to behave aren't you?" Sherlock said after watching him a moment. It was all rather interesting. Moran was more complex than he gave him credit for.

"You have no idea." Bottles clinked together, and he took a moment to swig out of one while he put takeout boxes into the fridge. "Fucking hell. Do you have to follow me in here?"

"I could talk to you through there, but that would be boring." He narrowed his eyes just a little. Well, John seemed to have performed a miracle. Pieced a broken man back together and made him a functioning human being capable of the more familiar human delusions of love.

"You could try not talking to me at all, yeah? That'd be excellent. We don't really have a lot to talk about." He glanced over his shoulder briefly, but he also seemed to be relaxing,

"Don't we?" Sherlock said. "Because I would have thought John was a common subject to us both."

And controlled Moran without even knowing he was doing it.

"And I don't want to talk about it. You're, fuck, you're back. Fine. I'll deal with this. I don't *share* well, but I'll get the fuck over it." He shut the refrigerator door, and straightened up, turning to stand uncomfortably close to Sherlock.

Intimidation and he was tall as well. Well if he wasn't going to be cowed by Moriarty or any of his assassins -- some of who were competent enough -- he wouldn't be cowed by Moran. "How very mature of you. This was always going to be a shock to John, I know that. But we never had a relationship."

Although he was closer to John than anyone he had been close to in his life.

"Oh, I know that. And you'd better get used to the fact that I'm probably less mature than my nephew. Army boys, you know?" He slapped Sherlock hard on the shoulder, and brushed past him. "G'night." 

That left him faintly disorientated. He had expected a big confrontation, something else. He had expected anger, but he had also expected John to at least be pleased he was back. But then that was predicated on a perfectly reasonable assumption that John would have a level of detachment with regard to him brought about by time.

He clearly hadn't, which was a miscalculation on his behalf. There was nothing to do to fix it, except re-acquaint himself with the bottom part of the flat and settle back into the land of the living.

* * *

Whoever had come up with all those hoary adages about if you love something, let it go free, love shared grows bullshit was a fucking asshole, and a liar and Sebastian Moran wasn't going to fall for it. He wasn't fucking noble, he was vicious and greedy and possessive. When he got something, no one took it away from him. Which was why he waited three days, stalking the shower to time it just right to get John when he was showering. 

John had been... subdued was probably the best word. Quiet and really trying to deal with whatever was going on in his head without bothering anyone else, which was crazy. Sherlock might be brilliant but he was blind to what he was doing, or he wasn't and didn't care. Everything had been so good between them, and then Sherlock waltzed back in.

And bam, things turned weird instantly, even with Seb trying to keep things as normal and easy as possible. He hadn't started fights, hadn't given into anything he wanted to do to that smug prick. 

Seb closed the bathroom door quietly behind him, and cracked the shower door to sort of give John a warning. That had been another thing, a drop in John's... usual ease with shit. It was like trying to make out at his sister's. "Room for one more?"

"Hey," John smiled a little and he looked a little more relaxed with them in a quiet space together. "Just about."

A quiet space that had running water. Seb was out of his clothes in an impressive amount of no time, and stepped under the water with John. "Sorry, I just. Miss you, how can I miss you when we're in the same fucking house?" He slid an arm around John, got close because he could. 

"I'm sorry," John said. "I know I'm not at my best at the moment. I'll get over things soon enough."

"Don't apologize," Seb murmured, pressing a kiss against the edge of his mouth. The water was not a hindrance for him, not when he could back John up against the wall of the shower. "I'm just worried."

"Don't worry," John replied responding to him. "I love you Seb and I really appreciate this. I just… don't know what's happening yet."

"I'm not going anywhere." He might get to the point where he chalked a line down the middle of the living-room, but he wasn't fucking going anywhere. That noble shit was for the birds, and idiots who hired him to clean up their lives. "And we've got a few minutes, so..." Hot water, John's skin under his hands, it didn't take much to get Seb going where John was concerned.

"You can't go." That was surprisingly desperate and John was clutching at him hard. Ella would probably say John was feeling insecure, but he didn't care. He had that fierce feeling of being desperately wanted and that was just what he needed himself.

John had no reason to feel insecure, none at all. Seb leaned into him, sliding his hands down John's sides, holding him close. "Hey, I'm not fucking going anywhere. You mean the world to me. I'm not, whatever you want is fine. I know that you..."  
John was kissing him back. "Know that I what?" he murmured in between mouthing at skin.

He exhaled, feeling the touch of John's lips send a jolt right down to his balls. Fuck. "Nope, you killed that thought. Jesus that feels good..."

He could feel John's scars and for the first time he was possessive over them. They were something he and John had been through together. It was something he never had to share with anyone else, it was theirs. "Just, do. Yeah… Ooh god."

His fingers were maybe a little extra firm, but John was groaning, and Seb pressed in closer, close enough that he felt against his skin every time John breathed, every muscle twitch, and fuck, yes, that finally felt like enough, shifting carefully, kissing the side of his neck. "Tell me what you want. Please. Just, want to hear..."

"Fuck me," John said in a bare whisper. "I want it now... want to feel it." He had a wound up state Seb could appreciate. Seb had a second home in wound-up, and was considering an additional time-share. After nights in a row of making sure he was too tired to do more than just lie in bed and let John sleep. And listen to the asshole downstairs move books around and play his violin at bizarre fucking hours. 

Getting John turned around was easy, and so was grabbing the lube that had moved into the bathroom ages ago. It was a horrible thing to put in his hair when he wasn't thinking straight late at night. Seb mouthed hard kisses against John's shoulder. It was all a little bit frantic and needy and it was strange it seemed to be that way for John as well, as if he was the one wondering if he would be thrown out on the scrap heap. Madness. He pressed back against Seb, grinding back against him.

"Remember what I said about restraining orders?" Seb murmured that against the back of his neck, shifting in close enough to slide his dick up between John's arsecheeks. There wasn't much sense in doing too much teasing, but he still put a hand between them and slid a partially slicked finger up John's hole. The *sound* John made was lovely, low in the back of his throat, and he felt nicely relaxed.

"Yeah, right now, thinking about it..." John said, bracing himself with his hands against the wall.

He laughed quietly, straightening up as he started to slide into John. Nice and slow, and hard enough to press John against the wall, to get him to arch onto his toes. So tight, John always felt so good around him, the way he clenched, the way his back moved. "Mmhn. Oh, you feel..." So good, so, so very good, while he braced an arm around John's chest, and reached down to start stroking him off.

"Oh god," and that was fucking fantastic, because it was not John trying to be quiet or do anything but being in the moment with him. Fantastic noises, hitching breaths, groans... Seb snapped his hips hard, drinking in those noises, because he hadn't heard them in what felt like forever and he loved the way John sounded against him, loved knowing he made John feel that way.

Fuck Sherlock and his presence in the flat, he would just have to deal. John was his no matter what mind game Sherlock was playing to get him back. He could lose himself in the thrust and movement and John's harsh breathing. John was his, all he really had, and he wasn't going to give it up. He was going to enjoy it, driving John harder until his breath was catching and he heard, felt John orgasm.

John gave an uninhibited cry out, clenching around him as he gripped the wall for support, even as he thrust in to his own climax. Urgent, a little rough and needy. Shower sex was fantastic. God it felt good, John and hot water and then the two of them panting while he finally pulled out, half leaning into John and half supporting him, pressing kisses against his neck. "God you feel good. Mmhm."

"You know, that felt good as well," John managed, eventually turning around. His smile was there, relaxed and amused and that was good. He’d missed that, missed just lingering against John, feeling him. He felt very alive, very… Very John. "We can do that again any time."

“I’ll hold you to that,” Seb murmured, brushing a kiss over John’s cheek. “Mm, Glorious.” Shower, interrupted in the best way. He could help John with the washing off bit, because that was no hardship at all for him, grabbing shower gel and lavishing attention over John’s skin, his scars.

"You know," John mused with a much more relaxed expression. "This possessive side of you has its attraction." He seemed very content in that moment. He didn't want to feel threatened by Sherlock's presence and right now he could almost believe he had no reason to be.

Almost.

"It's nothing new." Seb had always been proprietary, and easy with his affections at the same time. Something about having Sherlock always lurking in the public spaces of the flat made him shut down, tense up. "How's your leg?"

"Pretty good this morning," John admitted with a faint hint of surprise as if he hadn't noticed until he'd said something. He looked down at it as they rinsed off. "Must have unknotted over night or something."

Seb leaned in, running wet fingers through John's wet hair when he kissed the edge of his jaw again. All his. He was going to ignore the half jealous, half agonizing twisting feeling in the pit of his stomach, because, yeah. Psychosomatic injury that had gone away when Sherlock was around, that had come back when he'd died. Psychosomatic injury that was trending towards gone again. Psychosomatic meant Seb wasn't a fool, just. That he was going to pretend to be one for the sake of keeping the fucking peace. "Good. Don't screw it up running around in surgery today."

"It's the standing still that does it," John said, oblivious to the concept. "It means a lot to me that you are trying really hard with Sherlock. I... You're the one I want as a partner Seb, and I always will. But Sherlock, it's like something I lost came back." He shrugged a little. "I don't have the urge to kiss him or anything, I just need to know he's...alive."

And he was alive, all right. Alive and in the living room contemplating eternity or something. It was like living with Jim, minus the fun parts. "Best I can promise is to not duct tape him up and put him in the boot of my car." John cut the water off, and Seb pushed the door open slowly, mostly to reach for a couple of towels.

John laughed a little. "That's pretty much all I can ask," he said as he got a towel. "Thank you."

"Nothing to thank me for. I suppose Mycroft wouldn't appreciate me doing that, either." He wrapped one around his waist, and grabbed a hand towel to scruff through his hair.

"Probably not." John's expression darkened. "I'm going to have words with him. One word was all it needed."

"Who, Mycroft?" Seb lifted an eyebrow at John, moving to dry his hair off, too. "You're getting fuzzy."

"I like a bit of length there," he said, scruffing at his hair. "Yeah. I was the only one who believed and yet I'm the last one to know."

He slid his fingers leisurely through the faint curls at the base of John's neck. "Well, technically I only suspected."

"I know," John said. "I know, I just... Mycroft know, Irene had to know. Even Molly Cooper knew...Mycroft should not have been a surprise."

"Yeah, well. Media's gotten wind of it again." Round three, Sebastian supposed as he kept drying off, lingering comfortably beside John. The bathroom might as well have been a meter wide for all the space they weren't using.

"Oh God. Which means it'll be 'Sir John' again, and endless rehashes of everything," John replied. "It's not like what Sherlock did was even believable. Well, not by anyone who hasn't hung out with a genius."

"I know, but didn't you feel daft when he was done explaining it? Like oh, well, fuck, I should've known all along." He wandered over to the cabinet to do a quick touch up shave over the sink. Of course he'd obviously jump into a skip he’d prepared earlier and then jump down and the drugs that slowed his heartbeat would make it plausible enough that he'd end up immediately in Molly Hooper's care for corpses. It was so simple that it made Seb remember the days he'd hoped Jim had been a trick, with a blank, or, or... Or anything.

False DNA records, a trick Irene had used, and he was set. He had planned it, gone up there knowing the way it would work. It was something that Jim would have done if he hadn't been coming at it from the other direction. "I'll get a taxi to work, definitely. You still going to see Becks?"

"Oh, yeah. Coffee place with the proprietor whose wife has the dodgy paperwork. Figure public setting should cut down on her urge to do heart to hearts." And John probably needed to get going, while Seb lived a criminal's leisurely schedule.

He leaned and kissed him again. "Okay, I've gotta get a move on. I'll pick up breakfast there as I had...better things to do." He smiled a little. "Gotta go."

"Good luck. I'll do something for dinner. No bear, I promise." He waved at John in the mirror, waving the razor. Best to not follow John upstairs and make everything run later, so he took his time and didn't leave until he heard the outer door shut.

It had done something to assuage some of his unease, to think of John with his marks on him, walking around feeling that he had been in him. He seemed committed to him, but there was no doubt his sleep had been troubled and he seemed to feel the need to check Sherlock was there a lot.

There was nothing to do but bear it, and be there for John. As much as humanly possible for Seb. 

He wandered out of the bathroom, starting up the stairs to get a suit to throw on. He'd get breakfast at the coffee shop.

"Really, Moran, first John, now you." Sherlock was sauntering out of the kitchen, looking him up and down in a way that reminded him more than a little of Moriarty. "I don't need to deduce anything about what you've been doing. I'm sure even Mrs Hudson has worked that out."

"It's not exactly a secret," Seb noted wryly, brushing past Sherlock. "Do you want anything? I'm going out."

"Lestrade is coming around later," Sherlock said, his hair mussed but his eyes that same preternaturally bright he remembered from Jim. "I have everything I need."

"Oh, Lestrade. Say hello to him for me. He'll wince." It was great fun, in a lot of ways -- the man knew what Sebastian Moran did for a living, but he also knew he did it for the government, or at least, assisted. So there'd never been a threat to him, but it didn't mean there wouldn't be.

"Yes, I believe he is waiting for you to run amok with some high calibre weapon," Sherlock said. "He has no sense of adventure." He started off up the stairs again even as he heard John go. Seb shook his head, and ducked into their room. It was all mechanical -- getting dressed, putting on the slick crime boss he was supposed to be. He grabbed his phone on the way out the door, and his car keys, hoping to take any lurkers outside by surprise.

They did suddenly notice him going from where he saw them clustered as if they had been trying to mob John as he left for work. "Colonel Moran!" they tried to run after him. "Can you confirm that Sherlock Holmes is really alive?"

"Oh, Christ, wasn't there a statement or something by the family?" He waved a hand slightly, taking a casual stroll towards his car. He wasn't going to get himself worked up or react, and if any of them tried to get too close, they'd regret it. "So you already know the answer to that. Go away."

"Did Sir John know all along?" one asked.

"What brought him back? Why did he fake his death for nearly three years?"

A good question.

Sir John. Fuck, Sir *Watson* as least. "Not really my story to tell." He held up the clicker for his car as he finally got close enough for it to unlock. "Now, if you don't mind..."

"Why is he living with you and Sir John?" Oh and he could see the sordid threesome headlines already.

And the first answer on his tongue was 'apparently to piss me off', but oh, that'd make it to print and then he'd never live it down. "Because they're close. If my sister wanted to move in, I wouldn't say no, either." He opened his car door, and made a shooing motion. "Now, go away."

It didn't stop them making one last attempt to get a scoop before he drove off. They were old hands at this particular media dance now. But Becks was likely to be really angry, as much at Mycroft as anything.

Still. He'd gotten loads better at that shit than he had been, which was really just trial and error. He was nigh on a fucking war criminal, and they just kept pleasantly and sometimes harassingly asking him questions. It was fucking bizarre.

The drive to the coffee shop was smooth, and he made a few phone calls as he went, juggling old pressure points against each other smoothly. It was funny the shit people got wound up and held grudges over, even in their world.

When it came to life and death, he wondered why they bothered sweating the small stuff.

Becks was already there waiting, in her smart work suit, sharp and together. There were times where he wondered if she could have had the same level of control as Irene. He swung by the counter, ordered a good strong cup of coffee and a croissant, and then headed over to her. "You look frightening today. Morning."

"Lunchtime meeting at the palace," Becks said. "With Mycroft. So, I guess you're late due to reporters in the road?"

"And sex in the shower, yeah. Sorry. The reporters are hellish." He leaned back in the chair, crossing his legs at the ankle.

"I'd say too much information but you know I'd ask details," Becks answered sipping her latte. "So what's going on? Mycroft is suspecting some sort of sordid liaison. I don't think John would do that.”

"Mycroft suspects that? Really? Oh, that's bloody classy. So he should be expecting a car bomb any day now, then?" Seb said it lightly, but fuck. Mycroft was lucky that they didn't have their regular meeting until Friday. "I don't know what the hell is going on."

Becks shrugged a little. "You've got nothing to be worried about," she said with irritating confidence. "John loves you, that's all there is to it."

He glanced over his shoulder towards the barista, just a brief motion. "Mmm. I don't plan on doing anything stupid like running off. Already had that discussion in my head. I'm not allowed to kill him, so. Just gunna have to put up with the arsehole."

"When you say put up, is that like... Secretly planning an untimely end when I can get away with it or..." Becks asked raising an eyebrow. What else did he expect from her, really? She was his sister. She knew him too well, even when he *was* trying hard. 

“No.”

He fell quiet when he heard the Barista come up with the coffee and Croissant, thanked her quietly, dismissed her in the same breath. “I uh... I’m not sure if I’m being a doormat or a better person, but I’m trying.” And Sherlock reminded him of Jim. Too much, because he’d gone a long time without thinking about Jim as anything other than a historical fact. Once upon a time, there’d been Jim. But it was there in Sherlock’s eyes, that. That whatever the hell it was that had been in Jim’s eyes. 

He couldn't deny there was something magnetic about it, something that John must feel as well. He knew what it was like to be sucked into the orbit of someone so amazingly brilliant it was like staring into the heart of the sun. There was... something there. He didn't think it was desire and probably not for John either, but it was an attraction so profound, it could be interpreted as such.

"I'm impressed," Becks said and she didn't seem to be joking. "Seriously, that's... wow. So you don't think he is poaching?"

"No." He started to rip his croissant into appropriately sized pieces. It was still possible that they'd fall into bed together, but there was that strange detached thing that made him think of Jim again -- like it'd be exploring and nothing actually substantial. Sort of, oh, that was interesting, pass me my chemistry set. He ate a bite, and then chased it with a sip of coffee. "At least, he wouldn't on purpose. And honestly, what the fuck am I going to do if he does?" 

"I know what you would have done before," she said. "I remember Bradley."

He shouldn't have laughed, but he did, a quiet chuckle. Yeah, that one was hard to forget. He'd come back from Kosovo, gotten a nice welcome home, and found someone else's trousers in his drawer. "Would've been more than a fractured jaw if the neighbours hadn't called the cops."

"Look, I don't think John would do that. He doesn't seem the type," Becks said. "He'd not do anything behind your back. Sherlock… from what I've heard from Mycroft, he doesn't have friends, he's got one friend and that’s John. He's going to be a part of his life one way or another I guess, but... That doesn't mean they get to take advantage. You don't have to agree to everything." 

"Is this what passes for a pep talk, Becks? Because you're still shite at it." He cocked an eyebrow at her, and popped another piece of croissant into his mouth. "I'm stuck with him, but I don't have to be a doormat? Did you really just hand me that contradictory sentence? It's like living with *Jim*, without the sex. You don't know what it's like until you've done it."

She laughed a little. "There is a middle ground to everything. Yeah, he might have to be there, but you don't have to just accept everything he says just because of that." She stole a bit of his croissant. "We're not particularly good at pep talks are we? It was all... suck it up, get on with it. I just... don't want you to be unhappy."

Seb pushed the plate closer to her, offering another piece if she wanted one while a smile pulled the edge of his mouth. He supposed it was nice that she didn't want him to be unhappy, because things had been... really blindly good. Unbelievably good and easy, which he supposed was why Sherlock Holmes was back. Karma. "I think it's easier to suck it up and get on with it. The rest will follow." Jim and his unbelievable compound fractured leg and being stabbed and just letting himself bleed while he took care of shit that needed to be done. Everything he did while John had been in the hospital. The trip to Malaysia without John, and the gunshot wound he'd taken to his shoulder while exfiltrating.

Suck it up and get on with it. 

"I could always tip Mycroft off," Becks said. "He... I'm not sure how long he has known. He definitely believed it to start with though." She stole another small piece of croissant and ate it.

"Tip him off to what, exactly?" Seb leaned back in the chair, setting the coffee cup in his lap and mostly just holding it to have something to do with his hands. "I threw out a sighting... Christ. Must've been my first meeting with him, after." After his stint in custody, after that day Mycroft had bugged John's sleeve, after he'd gotten his organization up and standing on two legs again. 

"No, I mean if Sherlock causes big problems," Becks said. "He owes John and well..." She didn't say it out loud but she managed to convey he owed him too.

He shook his head slightly, trying to not look amused by what she was saying. "I think you're romanticising what I do for a living, again. It's excellent to be out and walking around, Becks, but I'm not going to push my hand. Tried it once, got a nice warning for it. He's a cold operator."

Iceman, Jim had called him. Cold and brilliant. More dangerous in his way than Sherlock because he persisted, as slow and inexorable as a glacier creeping to cover the world in an iceage.

"He can be," she agreed. "You can come round to dinner. Sherlock, too, if he can stand children. If he is anything like his brother... he won't come."

"Might out of spite." Still. He gave a shrug, and nodded. "I'll see if John's interested." Because they sort of did and didn't live out of each other's pockets, but Seb always automatically re-extended any invitation made to him to John. It just made sense. 

His cell phone gave the annoying buzztone he'd attached to Blakemore's number; it was something he wanted to ignore, but then another one hit, and that was just too much to be coincidence. He set the coffee cup on the table and leaned forward to pull it from his pocket. "Sorry, looks like I've got something to deal with. It's bizarre, like being on call 24/7 -- and it's always for simple, stupid shit..."

"It's okay. You keep those underlings of yours under control," she said and patted him on the hand gently. "Call me when you want to come over, Seb."

"Will do." He grabbed another bit of croissant, and popped it into his mouth while he stood up. It was, in some ways, like having a brigade again. Annoying, baffling-ly stupid at times, but he liked it. Liked steering and guiding the idiots, and knowing that one day one of them would probably take his place and if he'd done it right, they wouldn't be complete fuck-ups by the time they did it.

He gave his sister a wave, and dialled Blakemore's number as he walked. The day had started far too early, so it was clearly going to be a long one.

* * *

Sherlock wasn't sure why he had willingly done something he would ordinarily have equated to a close second of being hideously tortured, but he felt he hadn't really had an option. It was a sacrifice, again for John, and he vaguely felt a sense of obligation to him for coming back from the not-dead and it was written in every movement and nuance of him how much he was struggling to deal with the concept.

For John, he had jumped off of a building and faked his own death. This...while hard, surely not that bad.

He was starting to doubt it.

“How’re you not dead?”

"Because I'm not," Sherlock said a little tersely. Children never quite seemed to get the hint. "I never died so therefore I am not dead. It is really very simple."

"Uncle John told us stories, and you were always dead in them, which is why you never came around." Terse apparently didn't make her interest wane in the least. At least the boy had wandered off to the backyard of his own cognizance.

"He's not your uncle and adults tell children stories all the time," Sherlock replied. "They are called lies. Adults lie all the time."

"He is too my uncle." She was screwing up her face a little, but it was more very small anger than tears. "He's Uncle Seb's partner, and that's like Aunt Lily's husband. Uncle John doesn't lie, he writes."

"Blogging? You call that writing. And the books, they are pure fiction, save some vague similarities," Sherlock dismissed. "I was there and I can tell you, most of it was... embellished. People just don't think, they don't look at things. If you look at things properly you can tell anything and everything about them."

She put her hands on her hips. "Okay. Do it, then."

Children were notoriously messy with their clues and Sherlock ran over Louisa with a practiced eye. "You've recently become interested in a boy, and you've tried on you mothers make up though she doesn't allow it. You've been writing in your journal because you know your mother can check your email and facebook account. You had cocopops for breakfast but you are starting to worry about what you eat because you think you are putting on weight. It's puberty, but you haven't worked that out. You have a secret stash of chocolate hidden in your room and you play the violin, but you are not holding your wrist correctly so you play flat and you've never understood why." 

Easy. Traces of lipstick in the wiped clean lips, nearly scraped off nail varnish, ink smudges on hands in a glittery girl pen purple - definitely not homework. Stretching from the top she was wearing, showing she was self-consciously pulling it down all the time, and string indents on the fingers with a tendency to hold her wrist strangely. She might as well have had a neon sign over her head.

Louise’s eyes went wide, and for a moment she was stock frozen and staring hard at Sherlock. It wasn't even satisfying because it hadn't been at all challenging. "How did you do that? Do my mom! Do Uncle Seb!" Not her father, that was interesting. She apparently thought he had no secrets to hide worth knowing.

"Which part of observation did you not understand?" he asked. "It is deduction. A holistic approach to scientific evidence. It is a very simple principle which you have to be exceptional to master. I knew all that about you from looking at you, observing you. People shout out what they re doing with ..clues all the time. You have traces of lipstick in the cracks of your lips, you have tiny smudges of nail varnish here. Why would you start trying on make-up and hiding it? Because you are a teenage girl and it is forbidden. Ink smudge on your finger... there... unusual in this electronic day and age. Not homework as no school allows sparkly purple ink… and so on." He gestured vaguely at her.

"But how do you know what means something and what doesn't mean something? Not everything means something." And rather than attempting to apply it herself, she tried to make further sense of it. Still, that was better than blind acceptance, he supposed. 

And then Seb swooped in, rolled up shirtsleeves with an expensive watch on one wrist and a leather cuff on the other, catching Louise under the armpits to lift her up a little before setting her down. "Hey, girly girl. Your mum wants you to wash up before dinner. You, too, Sherlock. I already herded Tommy in to the sink."

"I assure you my hands are clean," he said. He spotted the leather cuff -- there was a world of information right there that they really didn't want him to reveal. Still, it might be amusing if one of the children started observing their 'Uncle Seb'.

Louise giggled. "Sherlock's amazing! He told me all sorts of stuff. It was so cool!"

“Yeah, it is. It's hard to do, too. Go on, wash up." He nudged Louise along, the straightened up, crossing his arms over his chest. "I assume you can deduce your way to the dining room?"

"I think I might manage," Sherlock drawled, standing up and heading that way. He had to admit it did smell good, a proper roast dinner. It was just not something they did often. Moran did seem to be good with his niece and nephew, another element to the puzzle. He wasn't sure what puzzle he was building out, but he was letting it casually develop until he knew what he wanted to do with it.

"Good. Hate to see you standing in the wrong room," Seb murmured, walking along. He could hear glasses, water being poured, John talking casually with Moran's sister and her husband.

"...I should have the first draft to the editors by the end of the month," John was saying. "Once their legal department has ensured that Sherlock and I won't get sued for contravening official secrets about glowing rabbits."

Seb snorted, sitting down next to John at the table. Rebecca and Jeremy were on either end. Sherlock supposed the chair to John's left was for him, and the two across the way were the kids'.

He sat down, unable to stop his cataloguing of things. Everything noticed, from the tired lines under make-up for Rebecca, to the comfortable familiarity John had with the place and the way that he "fitted."

"Seb, carve the meat will you?" Rebecca instructed pushing it over. Interesting sibling dynamic really.

Rebecca ordered, Moran rolled his eyes and did what he was told. It was a shame he couldn't get Mycroft to do what he was told, but there Moran was, standing up to carve the meat in a deft way that was probably similar to carving up animals and people for disposal. "Thanks for having us over. I'm pretty sure my backup plan of lasagne with bear sausage hidden in it would've had me sleeping on the sofa."

"There has been a lot of bear related product since Alaska," John said.

"It's your own fault John," Jeremy said as he brought in bowls of vegetables and roast potatoes. "Help yourselves, I'm just getting the gravy." Alaska? Alaska. That was something interesting to turn in his head as the children scuffed their way into the room.

"We should run out of bear in... What, another six months?" He looked over his shoulder at John, smirking. "Less if Mrs. Hudson keeps helping. By then something else will be in season somewhere."

"Uncle John and Uncle Seb killed a *bear* last month," Tommy grinned. "It's cool!"

"It'll be crocodile or something next," Rebecca said. "If you will give him presents like that."

"You gave him a bear...ah of course, Alaskan hunting permits and the tendency for Sebastian to shoot things," Sherlock commented, taking the food.

Moran continued to hand out the meat, still smirking. "Seriously, how much stuff did you nose through when we were at work this week?" He sat down, and John thankfully blocked the view.

“Oh please, a glance around the room in five seconds told me that much," Sherlock dismissed. "Books on the shelves, coarse animal hair in various places. "

"The way you give your guns pet names…" John added as a light tease.

He bumped his shoulder against John's, and Sherlock watched the gesture. "You named your camera." 

"Yeah." John grinned a little and Sherlock found that fascinating.

The meat was served and Sherlock noted it was a beef sirloin, and deduced that Rebecca was trying to impress. Considering the familiarity of John and Sebastian logically she was trying to impress him. That was interesting.

Why bother? Except that Sebastian had mentioned that she worked for Mycroft, so perhaps she was going the curry favour through the brother's brother route. "Sherlock, can you do that trick?" Louise asked. She was kicking her legs underneath the table, grinning as she started to eat her veg.

"It is not a trick," Sherlock said. "I told you it is deduction and observations. Only those who actually think can see it."

John and Sebastian both laughed, and Sebastian was mostly shaking his head between bites. "I'm sure Scotland yard is glad to have you back doing your, well, it may just be observations but you have got a unique mind," Jeremy offered.

"They hate it of course," Sherlock dismissed the blatant flattery. "No one likes to have their noses rubbed in their stupidity."

Louise giggled, and Sherlock wondered why she was hanging off of his every word. Clearly she didn't take after the adrenaline fuelled streak in the family, if she had an interest in 'Uncle John' and some complete stranger who could work things out. A thinking child, perhaps? 

"What, uh." Rebecca was all relaxed smiles, but that tension around her eyes was interesting. "Are you back to stay?"

"Assuming another debacle like the one that precipitated this does not occur, then yes," Sherlock said practically daring Moran to contradict him. He saw John's inadvertent smile.

And Moran... didn't contradict him. "It generally takes time for criminal masterminds to develop. They don't rise up whole cloth. I think you're safe for another couple of decades," Moran scoffed.

"Hah, like Athena?" Tommy supplied. "We've been reading about myths, and Greeks! So, like Athena, she stepped out of her da's head." Oh, they still told that one? That was a story that was *clearly* a lie, but there a small child was willing to say adults didn't lie, they just told you people stepped out of other people's heads. Excellent logic, that.

"Loosely based metaphors couched in fictional rubbish," Sherlock dismissed.

"Sounds like a review of my last book," John dead-panned.

"You forgot to add 'searing study of unlovable characters'," Moran grinned, taking a swig of water. "I thought you were staying away from the book reviews."

"Oh, that's rich coming from you," Jeremy said. "I bet you still have the address of the writer who accused, what, Three Months in the Jungle of being a romantic ode to machismo and colonialism?"

"Pffft, that was a decade ago. They probably don't even live in Newcastle anymore."

"Unlovable characters?" Sherlock queried rhetorically. "I think they mean realistic." John's portrayal of him had been surprisingly truthful, and even in a fictional way, very revealing in terms of John's characters internal workings.

He wasn't correct on everything that had crossed Sherlock's mind during the case, but it was fictionalised as well as already in print, so there wasn't too much point in attempting to correct his misinterpretations. On that one. "Same thing. Lestrade was offended enough for everyone. I'd give you that guy's address if I thought it'd end in anything other than an ASBO." 

"I should be worried about how you get these addresses?" Rebecca asked.

"Relentless googling. Remember, kids,” Seb offered around a sip of his water, “anything you put on the internet stays there forever. And gets found by creepy bastards years later, when you least expect it."

"A useful tool though," Sherlock added. The food was actually very good. He usually had very little time for food, because there was something interesting to do. "But no substitute for using your mind and senses." 

John nodded. "A phone on the other hand..." 

"Indispensible." 

"I vaguely remember life before blackberries and smart phones," Jeremy offered wistfully. 

"I remember when you had a pager," Moran offered, gesturing vaguely with his fork at Jeremy. "And I thought you were a drugdealer, not a cop, because who else carries pagers?"

"Can I have a smart phone?" Louise asked hopefully. "...For emergencies. When I'm at school. All my friends have one!" 

"Some people become over reliant on their phones," Sherlock said. "It's a tool not a way of life." It was actually comparatively pleasant conversation, even with John making a disbelieving sound at Sherlock's comment. 

"It's a tool and a leash," Moran noted regrettably. "And it empowers my employees to leave me bizarre text messages at 3am, with stuff like 'Can't get the conex unlocked'. Really? Put your phone down for thirty seconds and use your bleeding _brain_."

He approved of that sentiment at least. "Sherlock sends me texts when he's sitting downstairs asking for cups of tea," John said. "Which I generally ignore." 

"Please mum!" Louise asked again. 

"We'll see," Rebecca said, but he knew that she would give in. It was all there in the tone of her voice -- indulgent, doting, likely an about-face reaction to whatever sort of house she and Moran had grown up in, though for all of their relaxed demeanour, neither child seemed to be running rampant. 

"Christmas is coming," Moran reminded her. 

Tommy was diligently finishing off his veg, eyeing the adults across from him. "So's my birthday. Louise calls it Tommy-mas, and it lasts two weeks."

"Just because you have your birthday between Christmas and New Year, doesn't mean it is all about you," Louise said. "I want a phone for Christmas, please." 

At least she showed some manners about it. Sherlock was slightly impressed. Screaming spoilt children was not what he wanted to deal with because Christmas day would no doubt involve this family, and Mycroft of course. He was half looking forward to their own rituals having missed it for three years. 

He'd clearly missed a great deal over the last three years if he was missing sparring with his brother, and if he was willing to tolerate a domestic scene in quiet observation without it having any application to a case. It wasn't as if any of them were really challenging, except John, perhaps Moran. They were very normal people who wore everything on their sleeve -- occasionally literally in glitter pen. 

Jeremy tsk’d, and touched Louise's arm gently. "All right, let's not spoil any surprises. Enough phone talk." Still, by saying that he'd as good as ruined the surprise. It was probably already sitting in a box on a high shelf in the master bedroom, or perhaps the guest bedroom -- where-ever they knew the children were least likely to sneak in and look.

Human behaviour was rather predictable sometimes. "I believe I would like an interesting case for Christmas," Sherlock said having finished his plateful. "Should anyone wish to oblige." He couldn't bear the tedium where the country shut down. 

"We'll alert the criminal community immediately," John said with a faint smile. 

Moran snorted, taking a swig of water, and Jeremy shot him a look before grimacing like someone had kicked him under the table. "Hey, they've got families and in-laws and crap to deal with just like the rest of us. Lestrade'll mostly have domestics to review around then. Maybe one of those'll be interesting." He looked at Rebecca, picking up his own plate, who just nodded back, and the process of clearing the table started.

"An interesting domestic? I'd rather watch paint dry," Sherlock said. He was behaving, he could be good at charming it just usually wasn't worth the bother. They couldn't understand what it was like in his head. Even sitting there his mind was calculating all over the place, multiple variables soaking in information. Soon he would exhaust the possibilities of the room, and move on to the people. 

That was where the trouble in pretending to be polite usually came in. There wasn't even anything sordid about them, nothing that jumped out at him as a secret that should've been so obvious it burned, like the fact that Lestrade's wife was *still* cheating on him, regularly, in fact, and that the man had no obvious physical reaction to the fact other than outrage that Sherlock dared to *verbalise* it. 

He sat and watched while Moran and Rebecca cleared the table, and disappeared into the kitchen. Jeremy joined them after a moment, and came back sooner with a plate of biscuits. He'd recently had to re-qualify his shooting abilities for the police, but he was an inferior marksman -- the slide bite on his hand, the fact that no one was discussing it meant it was of no exciting import. There was no worry around his eyes, so he'd passed his qualifications with the likely same low standard he did every year. Never asked his brother in law for help, he assumed, or it wouldn't be a reoccurring incident. The question there was why? 

"It must be good to be back in London."

"In comparison to some of the places I have been, it is practically a paradise," Sherlock replied. He half wanted to grab hold of John and say, 'look, look, I'm making small talk and not being insulting for you'. He wasn't sure how long it could last. "Why don't you ask Sebastian for help with your aim?" he asked unable to keep the curiosity down for more than two seconds.

"I, uh." It startled the man, and that was a pleasant moment, watching the wheels tick in the back of the man's brain, to look sideways and watch John trace what Sherlock had just said and understand it before Jeremy himself did. He'd almost been worried that the slight progress he'd made with John would've been lost in the intervening time, but he'd apparently at least kept up his ability to follow a thread. He blinked hard at Sherlock, which was a sure sign that he had an immediate answer to it and wasn't going to say. 

"I'd just rather not."

Then Moran leaned into the room, as casual in the place as John was, as if they were back at the flat. "Coffee? John?"

"Sure, whatever Becks has," John replied, getting up to apparently help. "Hold on."

"Black, strong," Sherlock said. After the meal they had eaten he didn't need anything else. He mulled at the issue. Why wouldn't Jeremy ask for help from someone he was comfortable enough to allow in his house with his children? Ah, professional distance. Where would they practice? It would involve inviting Sebastian there and practicing. Was it to protect his own reputation or his brother in law from the rumours of him consorting with a police inspector?

Either or both were quite valid options. After all, there were no public rumours of Sebastian's criminal activities, but his cover story of Defence Contracting was generally viewed by the public at large as a semi-criminal endeavour, or at least a ruffian's life, imagining armed civilians in warzones shooting up the local populace even if it mostly involved paperwork. Still, a man couldn't be faulted for having a soft spot for his wife's interest in her brother, which kept his reputation defensibly clean should things ever go wrong. Perhaps he was genuinely discomfited by thinking about what Moran got up to during his work hours.

He hadn't inquired from John yet how complicit he was or wasn't, but it was something Sherlock found interesting. And how his own presence in the flat would affect the man's reputation. Criminal and consulting detective under the same roof. He could probably solve the city's uninteresting crimes by just breaking into the man's laptop, but that was *easy*. That was boring.

"It really is uncanny," Jeremy murmured, eyeing Sherlock was the kids picked through the biscuits.

"Uncanny implies a level of superstitious inexplicability, that is not present in my deductions," Sherlock said. "Of course, there are multiple explanations but I believe you are maintaining plausible deniability and keeping professional spheres separate. Ask John then."

"Ask John what?" John moved back in towards them.

"To help me improve my shooting skills," Jeremy said, while Rebecca and Sebastian came back into the room. A perfectly decent cup of black coffee was put in front of him, and then Sebastian lounged his was into the chair on John's other side.

"John is a surprisingly good shot for someone who was a doctor in combat." Sherlock recalled the shot John had made after they first met, killing the cabbie killer. 

"I was a soldier, too, Sherlock," John repeated.

Yes, but a doctor foremost. "And a frightening shot with a pistol," Sebastian agreed, leaning forward to snag a biscuit.

"At the risk of inflating John's ego, he is an adequate shot with a handgun," Sherlock said. "And he has a very strong public profile."

"Steady, I can feel my ego inflating from my adequacy," John said wryly.

"What's a public profile?" Louise asked.

"Something your uncle Seb lacks," Moran drawled, putting an arm over John's shoulders. "Thankfully, I haven't been barred from the country club."

Sherlock smiled a little at that. "Your... Uncle John is a knight of the realm. People write lurid stories in the newspapers about him, generally wildly inaccurate but flattering," he said.

"Once again my adequate ego is inflating."

Rebecca took a sip of her coffee. "And Mycroft says he's seldom heard a complimentary word pass your lips."

"A compliment isn't worth anything unless it is about something extraordinary," Sherlock said. "I have high standards." He finally sipped his coffee, noting it was a superior roast. Again, the need to impress.

Strange, she didn't seem like she felt she needed to impress. Still, there had to be a reason, a thread to pull and follow. She had tired eyes and she'd touched up her concealer. Something was worrying her, but what? Could be simple domestic issues, work, could be a secret she was keeping for work. That was likely, given the nature of Mycroft.

"Well, if you want to, Jer," John said. "Although Seb would be the more skilful choice, I get why."

"So have you been working cases?" Jeremy asked as he nodded at that.

"I haven't been back that long, so only a few." Sherlock acknowledged.

He was still waiting for one that was really inspiring. Nothing so far had really taken a hold of him passionately. "And John's helping again, or...?"

"If you call blogging helping," Sherlock needled John a little.

"I am useful in stopping people from trying to throttle Sherlock," John added amicably enough.

"Someone has to." Sebastian's voice was pitching towards humorous, but Sherlock didn't buy it, not entirely. Jealous then, still jealous and afflicted by eros, sexual love. Filios, eros and agape, the Aquintian concepts of love. Sherlock contemplated the fact that eros eluded him but he had surprised himself by feeling *intensely* about John.

"I look forward to the next big case."

"Well, then. To cases?" Rebecca lifted her coffee cup in a mockery of a toast. From John's grin, yes. To cases.

* * *

Sherlock believed he had done exceptionally well. No one had been reduced to tears, John seemed amused and mellow. Only Moran still seemed tense as they drove back to the flat.

"That went well," John said, master of the banal.

Tense might've been the wrong word. Absent, perhaps, or strained. Emotions were fickle and hard to pin down, after all. "It's always nice to see the kids. And Jeremy, I suppose. You're not allowed to tell him that."

"He is somewhat mediocre," Sherlock commented. "But astute enough to know when not to mix business and pleasure."

"He is a very good chief inspector," John put in.

"I meant in comparison to present company." It wasn't an insult, just a fact.

"Next year's their twenty fifth wedding anniversary. They took forever to finally have kids." Sebastian shifted in the driver's seat, eyes fixed on the road. "Maybe mediocre but loyal to Becks, so. He gets a pass from me on managing his office politics well."

"Something is bothering your sister," Sherlock said. "I exercised tact and did not raise it."

"I think I'm going to have to note this down on the calendar," John quipped.

"Mmm? Oh, yeah. We talked about it." And he volunteered no further information. The only thing Sebastian had proved tight lipped about was Moriarty's criminal empire.

"You're not going to share?" John asked sounding a little disappointed. "Is it something we can help with?"

"Oh course he's not going to. Haven't you noticed he doesn't talk about that in my presence?" Sherlock pointed out.

"Right, yeah. That. So no, I can't. It's just one of those things. I'll fucking deal with it as it comes. And I didn't need your asshole brother making my sister worry about it, either. Fuck. I can't sort out which if you is a bigger asshole. I used to think it was you, but I'm really not sure anymore." The car accelerated just a hair more, faster and faster, and then Moran seemed to catch himself.

Sherlock noted that John's fingers were just lightly touching the back of Sebastian's hair as they drove, inducing the calmer state.

"Mycroft is in a league of his own when it comes to that," Sherlock agreed.

"It's to his advantage to let this play out. So. Nothing to do but watch Becks twitch in the meanwhile." His fingers drummed on the steering wheel, but touch, it seemed, was all it took to settle the man. 

It was an interesting to watch John communicate in touch with Sebastian. "He makes mistakes," Sherlock said. "You have to be aware of that."

"Oh, we are," John said. "He baited a trap for Seb at the start. Kept him as a prisoner."

"A week in custody." Hardly anything at all, given the tally of bodies the man had no doubt left in his wake. "He miscalculated with Jim, so yes, I'm well aware he makes mistakes. But given that I work for him..." And apparently respected the chain of command.

"You assume that Mycroft would not sacrifice someone if it suited him," Sherlock said. "I know my brother."

And had not gone to him. Tainted as he was with fraud and the manoeuvring, he knew Mycroft would not protect him. He watched Sebastian's profile as he started to say something, and then stopped himself, and just fell quiet. "I'm not an idiot. But thanks for the reminder."

"Didn't say you were," Sherlock said. "But give me a few minutes and I probably will."

John snorted a little at that, and he could see the stroking of fingers in the nape of Sebastian’s hair.

If he hadn't been driving, Sherlock would've expected the man to close his eyes and purr. Mating rituals were so unnecessary and strange, though John was apparently doing better with Sebastian than he had with the parade of girlfriends who Sherlock barely remembered. The scenes that had happened, those he recalled with much greater clarity. 

Usually he had been cited as some sort of factor in the inevitable break up. All he had done was carry on as normal and expected John to do the same.

He gave John a look, and John raised an eyebrow right back at him, not stopping. Well, that was interesting. Silence persisted, but it felt less tense, easier. The car wasn't speeding, and it wasn't much longer until they reached familiar streets and they parked up.

It was also funny, how they automatically fell into a walking pattern with John in the middle and Sebastian to his right and him on the left. Fascinating.

"Maybe we should see if Lestrade has anything tomorrow," he said aloud. "I'm bored."

Sebastian snorted, and unlocked the front door, ushering them all in. It was a slow trudge up the stairs, unwinding for the night and after a good meal. "That shouldn't send a shiver up my spine, but strangely, it does."

"Feel free to join in," Sherlock said, feeling an uncommon generosity. "If ruling the underworld with a rod of iron bores you."

"It's not really a job anyone retires from, but I appreciate the offer." John got the door at the top of the stairs, and then there was the usual shrugging off of coats and milling about. Yes, hopefully Lestrade had a *good* case for him.

* * *

John was having a fantastic time running after Sherlock through the streets of London on some possibly insane mission. There was some degree of familiarity there, but there was not any of that empty feeling because there was Seb as well...who, yes, needed a lot of reassurance right now, but that was pleasurable as Seb preferred physical forms of reassurance.

"Left, left!" Sherlock shouted, cutting to the right and all right obvious scissor manoeuvre so they could question a suspect who *ran* -- why did they always run?

What was good was he could run now, fast and hard through the chill air. He knew he was grinning, because Sherlock was running with his coat flaring behind him like batman for god’s sake. He'd have to share that with Seb.

All Sherlock had said to the 'witness' was "I know about the printer dye..." and he took off like a rabbit.

John wasn't even sure he quite followed it all, but he knew that the kidnappers had been paid for in counterfeit money, and the man who was running was the father's executive assistant. He banked left on the street, starting towards John, just as John heard a car coming up behind him.

"Shit!" He had to zig-zag out of the way or risk getting knocked over. "Sherlock!"

The car pulled up and screeched to a near halt as their quarry threw himself in, even as John tried to get to the door.

Someone inside hauled him in, and the door was pulled shut hard, locked and sealed as it started to drive off just as fast as it'd arrived. He swore he'd seen those gloves before, the gloved hand that had hauled the door shut. Where...? 

"Bugger it." Sherlock was panting as he staggered to stand beside John. "Counterfeiting. Of course. He'll turn up dead by tomorrow."

"Where does that leave us?" John said bending over to get his breath back, hands braced on his knees. "Just established that... counterfeit money was involved. Does that help with the kidnapping? We've still got to find the girl and our best lead has just... disappeared into the night. "

"Our best lead for finding out who the man hired, yes. Call Sebastian." Sherlock didn't undignify himself by bending over, but he sounded worse than John felt. "He might as well have leaned out the window and shouted he'd be home for breakfast. Well, what're you waiting for?"

That was the gloved hand. He winced a little, but they had established boundaries and the deal was if one of his people was stupid enough to get caught, then they deserved to get caught.

He dialled Seb, coughing a little as it rang.

"Colonel Moran." Bright and alert; in the background, he could hear a low noise that was possibly of human origin, attempting to talk.

"Seb, hey," John said. "You just picked up someone we were chasing, so Sherlock informed me."

With complete and utter certainty. There was a quiet pause, and he was certain he could hear Seb thinking, and someone attempting to yell against a makeshift gag. "Might've."

"Look, internal politics, Seb, I don't want to know. But I do want to know anything about the kidnapped little girl that the kidnappers have who were paid for with counterfeit bills by that guy. Can you do anything for us on that front?

He was quicker to respond that time. "Give me ten minutes. Wait for me to call. Please stop standing in the middle of the fucking street."

"I was chasing a suspect!" John protested. "You nearly ran me over, you bastard." He grinned as he said it, imagining Seb's expression. He had to take the compromise of knowing what would happen to their suspect but on the other hand, Sherlock had that streak in him too. Throwing the man who hurt Mrs Hudson out of the window more than three times.

"No, that was Frank. Ten minutes." And then Seb hung up. 

And Sherlock was standing there looking smug and bored already. "We might as well head back to the flat. We won't need to come back to this part of town again soon."

“I want to you to see if you can deduce where she is before Seb, comes back with information," John said turning to walk back in a more sedate way.

Sherlock snorted, but his smile was wide. "Yes, and it takes, hmn, how long to break a human's spirit? Fifteen minutes? Less if you know the person, so let's call it ten. Ten minutes, and the Executive Assistant paid for his bosses's daughter to be kidnapped. The how is boring. Why? He wasn't colluding with the kidnappers, he'd paid them, so he wasn't going to get a share of the cut. No, that's too simple."

"Could he be working on behalf of someone? Where did he get access to the money that he shouldn't have?" John asked. It was a strange thing.

Sherlock groaned, shaking his head. "The dye! The dye, John. Just think. Being an executive assistant doesn't *pay* well, but the man had good taste in clothes, drove a very nice car, now if you have family wealth to fall back on you don't become a businessman's housemaid in a suit. No, so he was either going legitimate for the first time, or he liked the job but liked a nice lifestyle more, and somehow fell into doing things like making counterfeit money, but I know it's the reverse in this case. So the how, as I said, is *boring*. Someone decided to use the product for themselves, and get themselves killed when their employer finds out. It's a very *final* sort of firing, but -- why pay for the girl to be kidnapped? What was he getting out of it?"

"If it wasn't money, then that leaves love or revenge. People do crazy things for love," John said with a shrug.

He caught the sideways look Sherlock gave him, and then punched Sherlock lightly in the arm when he uttered, "Obviously." It got him a low chuckle from Sherlock, clearly delighted with himself. God it felt good to hear Sherlock laugh. "So, love. All right, John. Tell me why, in your small mind, you'd kidnap a small girl for love."

"If you were in love with..." He frowned. "If it is the soon to be wife? The kid is the daughter of the first one true love, no love lost there. She was pre-nupt to the hilt when she married in.”

"Really? You'd kidnap a woman's child to get her attention?" He was giving John a deeply dubious expression. "Or, perhaps, to help her pull a fraud off. Was he attempting to frame the boss? We can't tell, but perhaps if the police hadn't gotten us involved it might've happened. So, if the man is willing to shit where he eats with the counterfeit money, then I would say that the 'kidnappers' such as they are, are related to the workplace. The legitimate business."

"Got to be a set up by her," John said frowning. "You know, pulling the strings for the extra money she knows he can lay his hands on.”

"That she's been barred from," Sherlock agreed. "Now, which employees? We won't be speaking to our suspect again, so let's skip the flat and speak with the wife instead."

"Right." John headed out to try and flag down a taxi. "Got an address? Or will she be at the family home playing the concerned mother?"

"Wouldn't be one to break character, she's _far_ too precise for that." And Sherlock stepped out, waving as well. Of course, it stopped for Sherlock. There was just something about being short that forestalled getting picked up by a taxi in a timely manner.

John fought the urge to roll his eyes and piled into the taxi with Sherlock. "14 Kensington Drive," he said looking it up on his phone.

Sherlock made a go forward gesture to the taxi driver, and they were off. "Six minutes. I wonder if he still has all of his fingers."

"Yeah, I don't need to think about that," John replied wincing a little. Torture was not something he liked to think about having seen some of the effects in Afghanistan.

Sherlock tsked quietly, but let it drop. "Then continue not thinking about it. So she trusts them to not actually harm her daughter -- so I'd say one of the 'kidnappers' is a woman. Now, how many women were in the office?"

John mentally reviewed who he had seen. "Sheena Christopher the Marketing PA, Doreen McAllistair a senior accountant, Christina Hall, one of the secretaries and...shit...Georgina West, the Human resources Director." He was proud of himself, he remembered them.

Sherlock had known them all before he'd even asked, but he looked pleased as he nodded. "Now, Human Resources Director we can toss to the side immediately -- she's a careerist, too oriented to do anything petty like this. Miss Hall -- no as well. No, I believe it was Miss Christopher. PAs commiserate, don't they?"

"They would have that in common." Bitching was probably the usual term for it. "And they are used to strange requests, know how to adapt," John said playing it through in his head.

"This is the ultimate form of adaptation. I suspect we'll have the girl back to her dubious custodial situation within the hour." He glanced at his watch, and almost right on cue, John's cell phone rang.

"Hey Seb," he said seeing the caller ID pop up. "What have you got? We've got a working theory."

"He said it was a Sheena Christopher." Seb sounded not at all happy. "And her boyfriend. Is that all you needed?"

"Fits in with Sherlock's theory," he answered and Sherlock looked smug. "Didn't say where then?"

"Very creative location -- their respective apartments. One's off of... Fuck, hold on. Right. 48 southwark. Or, 27c, Rood lane. Is that enough?"

"Fantastic Seb, thanks..." He hoped everything was okay. "I owe you one." More than one. "See you later?"

"Yeah, I'll be back in the morning. Good luck with it." He rang off, harried sounding. Then again, there was probably a dying or struggling man in the back seat.

"We have two addresses, 48 southwark or 27c Rood lane," John announced. "Do I call Lestrade now or...?" Two possiblities and very little evidence that could be presented.

"Yes. We'll sort out the hows later." Sherlock was on his own phone, flicking through screens. "Southwark first, that's Miss Christopher's. Findable via, hmm, Facebook." 

John leaned over and instructed the cabbie to change direction. He reached for his gun, checking it as still handy and then dialled Greg. 

It felt good to be coordinating. It felt good to hear Lestrade while for a moment he weighed who went where and were reminded that they were consulting detectives, not police. 

They were still going, and Sherlock looked alive and bright eyed next to him and for one strange moment he wanted to laugh for just being in this moment. "Greg says we should stay out of it."

He looked un-amused, but nodded and told the taxi driver to change back -- so the wife it was. "Then we'll change the tracks of this particular train and speak to the wife. We've already closed it." This was finishing it off, savouring it. There was probably more that Sherlock knew and was just holding on to, to unveil with as many witnesses as possible.

He'd missed it all. The big cases, the little cases, all of it.

Seb couldn't or wouldn't let him in on his world unless it was cases like these and they didn't come along that often. But he felt alive, he felt like it had been double or nothing and he'd managed the pay off.

He gave the other address to the cabbie ignoring his muttered 'make up your fucking mind' and leaned back.

Sherlock was all pleased with himself faces, typing away on his cell. "That was nominally satisfying. You carried on quite well, John. You really do keep up satisfactorily. Shame the suspect got away."

But not got away with it, John thought with a hint of satisfaction. Someone who would kidnap, terrorise and do who knew what to a little girl was not someone he was going to lose sleep over. "As ever, I shall take your words of encouragement to heart Sherlock."

"That was encouraging?" He barely flicked an eyebrow at John, but he was still smiling. "Then I'm sorry, and I take it all back."

John looked at him and then snorted with laughter. "Yeah, thought you might."

He'd been right in the end -- that the wife had been cheating on her husband with his personal assistant, that she was going to jail for conspiracy and they had a warrant out for the PA's arrest. It wasn't what John would call a happy ending, and it was coming back around to 8am by the time they got a taxi back from the police's to the flat. Not a happy ending at all, actually. When a little girl's own mother would have her kidnapped, and then to have that mother go to jail or worse for what she'd done....

Case was solved, and everyone was miserable except Sherlock, John and the cops.

John extravagantly got breakfast from the cafe next door to the flat, and extra for Seb if he was back, or would be back. "We are awesome," he declared.

"Why, was that a religious experience for you?" Sherlock drawled from his stretched sprawl in his chair. He'd thrown his coat and scarf loosely onto the rack, and was peering vaguely around. "No, he's not come back."

"I'll send him a text, otherwise I'm eating his bagel," John replied. "Damn, I'm hungry. Eat something... otherwise you get irritable. _More_ irritable."

Sherlock levered himself up from his chair, snatching up a bagel on his way to the kitchen to make tea, John was sure. He fired off a quick hello, we're done sort of text, and re-pocketed his phone. 

"You're not my mother." Said around a mouthful of bagel. 

Almost too quickly, John's phone dinged. 'Blakemore's dead. Back whenever. Love you.'

"And there I was thinking you'd appeared full formed from the ether," John said frowning a little. "Looks like we get to eat Seb's breakfast. Got a staffing issue."

For someone to get Blakemore, that was worrying. He was one of the inner circle so he might not see Seb for a few days, so he sent back a hasty acknowledgement 'See you soon, be careful. Love you'

"Staffing issue? He's had a lot of problems lately, hasn't he?" Sherlock threw that out there as he leaned against the edge of the kitchen table, chewing slowly. 

He had been absent a reasonable amount of time, but John had half wondered if that had been Seb being 'noble' and giving him time.

"Yeah. I guess," he replied. "He's taking care of it."

Sherlock gave a bored sort of shrug. "If you say so."

John paused. "Okay, what?" he asked. "Or I'm keeping all the pancakes. Waffles, whatever they are."

"No, I'm sure he's taking care of it. It just does seem to have been taking him away a lot, and I was under the impression that he was usually home. Unless I was wrong about that?" He cocked an eyebrow at John.

"No, he is mostly," John frowned a little. "But things have been a bit different, since..." He looked at Sherlock. "Is there a pattern?"

Sherlock was silent for a moment, just a moment. It felt like forever. "Nothing definitive as of yet. I have endeavoured to stay *out* of his affairs."

"Let me know if anything comes up," John said and poked at his pancake. Seb would be fine. He was fast, smart, and had not lost his edge so he would be fine. Seb had handled Moriarty, he could handle the usual infighting.

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "There's my Seb. The blind, wounded animal, struggling to live even while I open a vein and let the blood pump out." Jim's presence blotted out whatever Maybourne was saying as the whisper echoed in his ear. "You'll be back with me soon. I'll rip the taint out of you. Sentimentality, love... All of it. Missteps in a dance."

There were bad days. And then there were _bad_ days. 

He'd had to drop a body into the river, which was easy and simple, but Blakemore was dead and some American idiot had gotten the drop on him. He realised he was screwed before they had him on his knees in the back of a lorry, with his hands cuffed behind his head, with two guns aimed on him. "I think this is really overkill. You know, we could come to an agreement."

"And the agreement will be on our terms." The man standing behind him sounded American; the men with him were military trained, he could tell that much. "You are going to be our guest for a while, Colonel Moran."

"You killed one of my men," Seb said slowly, still not moving. Quarters were too close to make an escape -- he was daring and accomplished, but not fucking stupid. "That doesn't make me a very trusting guest."

"That was a euphemism," the man drawled coming into view. He was not that impressive if he’d been an operator at some point in his life. Definitely past his prime, and a bit grizzled, he looked like he had been running a desk rather than active duty.

He wasn't going to dismiss the American out of hand, though, since clearly he'd managed to get the drop on Seb, but he was going to watch him and see what else there was. The lorry was still moving, which wasn't good, and every time it turned he had to brace his knees carefully. "Obviously. So, what's the game?"

"Grand Theft Criminal Underground," the man replied with a self-satisfied smirk. "You will cooperate with us Colonel Moran, or we will find a means to make you cooperate."

He exhaled slowly through his nose, pressing his tongue hard against his back teeth. Fuck, fuck fuck. Yeah, that was something Jim had always been afraid of, actually. Not afraid, Jim was never afraid, but wary, leery, that someone would truly understand how much everything hinged on him, how everything ran through him, how much of the United Kingdom's crime touched him. Jim played off of it, played quiet, kept it low and crazy instead, sent his missionaries and his emissaries and his mercenaries out as the faces. "That's not very incentivizing. I think I've heard this line before."

"I'm sure you have," the man said, obviously supremely confident in his position. "But I have access to people who can pull it off. It's a strength that becomes a weakness isn't it? One person in control, calling the shots even if others don't know it - less to go wrong... but all that power in one place? No one is going to come for you Colonel Moran."

"Oh, now I'm sure I've heard this song before. I liked it better the last time I heard it," Seb murmured, closing his eyes for a moment to shift his weight on his knees. Why the fuck did everyone think he was some sort of psychotic lone wolf with no associations? He had bloody *obvious* associations, or they wouldn't have killed Blakemore. "And if I don't cooperate?"

"You will." The man gave a gesture and one of the thugs behind him calmly kicked him in the ribs.

It knocked him forward, and with his hands positioned like that, he landed hard on his chest. The only reason he didn't fuck up his face was because he twisted, caught himself mostly on the side of his arm, turned his head carefully. "Oh, fuck *you*!" He flexed his thighs, getting himself upright, or trying to, with an uneasy grunt.

"There are plenty of things we can do to you and leave you useful for what we need," the man replied. "They know how far they can go. Make it easy on yourself and just comply and this won't have to get unpleasant."

Seb started to laugh, twisting and finally managing to get himself onto his knees at last. "I'm sorry, that sounds so much better to me in an overdone Russian accent. Watched too many James Bond films growing up, eh?"

"You know how it is," the other man smiled a little and seemed quite genial. "There are things that just have to be said in these situations. Melodrama aside, it's true enough." He shrugged a little. "You are altogether too alert at the moment." He gestured to the men guarding him again.

He twisted again, ready this time. Seb even managed to surge to his feet to head butt the fellow who'd kicked him in the ribs. It didn't help long term but it felt good in the moment, felt good as he fought them with his hands cuffed behind him. Four guys, even with him fighting dirty, was too many to take on when restrained, so he wasn't really surprised when he ended up flattened on the floor of the lorry after a few vicious hard kicks that left his ears ringing, his back hurting, and every inhalation a sharp pain.

The other man watched with a faint look of distaste and eventually signaled a stop. "I suggest you get some rest. When we get to our destination, I'm going to have some work for you to do. If you do it without trouble we will treat you well enough."

He bit back sharp words, and closed his eyes instead, focused on breathing. He was really stupidly tired after the last two days and after seeing to the clean-up at Blakemore's apartment he'd really just wanted to go home and crawl into bed with John. Sleep for a couple of days, start all over again. The vehicle made a few more turns, and then he didn't know. He wasn’t Jim, and able to deduce exactly where they were by counting turns and distance and calculating their speed because he wasn’t that type of maths whiz. It had to start with him, from him, not move him along. Seemed to stop, and he feigned unconsciousness in a careful way while they carried him from the back of the truck to a medium sized looking warehouse. He only got glimpses, but it was enough to know they were well out on London, well out of the suburbs. 

It was a professional sounding set up, but mainly American accents around him. He heard people speaking as if they had been military, using "sir", using staff terms. He heard the one who seemed to be in control referred to as Maybourne, or Harry. It wasn't a name he knew that much about.

And he wasn't in circumstances where he could do much about it. His cell phone made a couple of tones in his pocket, incoming messages because life goes on. The network carried on, as it was supposed to. 

He tried to think how long it would be before he would be missed. John wouldn't think much of him being missing for a while after he sent him that text saying he was going to be dealing with something. Besides, they were working that case. The network might implode before then, but his other lieutenant would pick up some of the slack. He knew that that Blakemore was down and Seb was dealing with the fall out. He might just assume he was on some silent running. The more he looked at it, this was very astutely picked out timing on this group’s part. Most likely they had set up the Blakemore thing as bait, but that meant they had been trying to weasel into the organisation for some time.

The last move in Mycroft's game, then. Seb heard someone, Maybourne, maybe, walking towards where they'd set him. They hadn't further secured him than the cuffs and the injuries, which was sloppy, but he suspected they still had guns trained on him. Becks had been right then. He was being used as bait for something, and information that could have headed this off had been intercepted. Fuck

"Why isn't he restrained? Don't let his compliance fool you. I want him drugged up, and secure before we start the interrogation. We may have to move again if the government gets wind of this."

Well, it was nice to have it confirmed. He stayed 'compliant' so to speak, right up until someone grabbed his arm and stuck him with something. That was a problem, bastards who thought they could just inject anything into him willy nilly and magically get the reaction they wanted. "Not gunna play along." He needed to make this last, after all. He was looking at least a week or two before anyone would give a shit.

"Yeah, I rather thought that would be the case. Fortunately the drugs will make it easier to persuade you," Maybourne said. "They make it much more difficult to muster up the resolve to fight, or will to keep going. After that it's just a matter of finding the right... pressure."

He gave a quiet laugh while they hauled him up to better secure him. There was a chair this time. He kept his muscles tense, depending on it for slack later. "My last partner did that shit to me as a weekend game. You're going to be hard pressed."

"Everyone has a breaking point Colonel Moran. It's just a case of finding it. Yours might be something different to others, but I know you have one." Maybourne gestured. "I have some very inventive colleagues." None of them as inventive as Jim had been, he was certain.

"Good for you. You are still relying on me being honest about deadman's traps and the structure. You'll still be trusting me to be honest. Good luck with that." Chairs were always a good sign of a slow start.

"I think we can deal with that," he said. "Wire him up." Oh, electricity first then. Physically not as intrusive if they were going to be working on him for some time.

Classy, he had to say. He stretched, not really struggling, but because he felt restless and was trying to shake off the drugs that he could feel slowly blotting him down. "You know, I do this a lot."

"Get tortured?" Maybourne queried. "I hope they were well trained. Nothing worse than amateurs."

"That's true, isn't it?" He turned his head, looking at the men as they opened his shirt up, unbuttoning him around the secondary restraints with a sort of detached interest as they rolled his sleeves up and then just cut them off. He recognized the equipment, too, the pads to spread the jolt over the skin, to cause maximum pain with minimum risk. "Oh, nice equipment. I'll be honest, I prefer a good contact pressure tazer or a car battery and a jumper cable. What do you use for lubricant to make the connection better?"

They didn't answer but it looked like some medical grade lubricant as the electropads were affixed in various vulnerable areas as well as across his torso. It appeared to have a multi feed so it was probably something that could have groupings that would fire at some points and not at others.

"There is no need to be crude about the process." Maybourne looked at him. "Let’s have a warm up cycle shall we. Although if you want to just start by reeling off the names and numbers of your primary network contacts in this country, that will be fine."

Seb smirked, leaning back in the chair as he gave a rolling shrug of his shoulders. "I could give you my favourite takeout places. Usually, you know, you start this kind of thing with a nice red wine." What fucking idiots. His cell was in his pocket, but none of the numbers were associated appropriately. Key was still in his head.

The pulses started low, more a twitch, gradually building up to the point where it started to show physical pain, and then higher again. They were finding baselines, trying to make him react and respond.

He knew he had to be frustrating them, shifting and relaxing to really feel the pain, letting it seep into his bones even as his muscles danced against his will. They stopped for a moment, and he let his head look back on the chair, panting a little. "Fuck."

"He has a high pain threshold," one of them commented. "Bring the others up to match." All the clusters were going now, burning sharp pains that were insistent.

He closed his eyes, and breathed through it, keeping his tongue away from his teeth because sometimes he just had to snap down and clench through it. Fuck, fuck fuck. "Fuck, fuck, christ, Oh god..." Oh god, and if they'd just move the pads they'd placed on his thighs a little higher he could come and thank Jim for a conditioned response. As it was, he couldn't move, couldn't fucking get away, and they'd really opened up with the wrong torture.

"Enough." Maybourne said and then paced around him, noting his erection. "Oh, for fuck's sake. He wasn't kidding. That means we might have to revise the set up a little. Hit him again."

He started to laugh, leaning forward again and testing the restraints just as one came in and punched him hard in the gut. It didn't even knock the wind out of him, but it did make his rib flail, sharp pain that made him gasp, that made his eyes water. He needed to play it all off, though. "I thought you did your research, mate."

"Yes well, people play at it, but don't necessarily get off on the real thing," Maybourne said. "I suppose this means that you find rape to be a massive turn on as well."

"It's been a while, but I wouldn't say no, would I?" He laughed, and it almost felt like one of Jim's laughs, watching one of the men who was just at the edge of his peripheral vision flinch. "Well, I wouldn't _mean_ it. Like I said, you really should open these proceedings with a glass of fine wine, if you're really gunna _commit_ to foreplay."

"Right then." Maybourne, it seemed, was going another tact. "Strip him, and prepare the cage. Give him the other drug. Let’s see how that works."

He flicked his eyes over to where they were looking, and shook his head slightly, breathing through the pain as it started to subside. It looked small, a crouching cage, and it was going to fuck with his back something awful. He was sure there was more to it, of course, but. "Really still not feeling predisposed to handing over the keys to my kingdom, Maybourne. You realise SERE training was one long masturbatory fantasy for me, right? Cold, wet, can't move, can't see, burlap bag over your head and someone shouting at you."

"We have time. No one's going to miss you for a while are they?" Maybourne said rhetorically. They injected him again with something that stung, high against the back of his shoulder, and then started the process of moving him over.

* * *

The problem with torture was that it did, no matter how hard he worked, eventually start to soften him up. He was tired and he was thirsty, and he had no idea what was in the drug cocktail they were giving him regularly but he'd started to feel his iron clad control slipping. And Maybourne knew it, too, to have him hauled out of that tiny fucking box, back screaming agony while he was sat down in a chair across from Maybourne.

His cell phone was sitting there, and a glass of water. Clearly he was supposed to reach for one or both of them, as his hands were cuffed and to the front of his body. It would've been an excellent escape opportunity, but the world kept spinning in interesting ways that made him not trust his ability to make a really good fucking run for it. He was starting to see motion in his periphery that wasn't there, and just. Fuck.

It was classic brainwashing techniques and he knew it. Drug regimens to make him pliable, purgatives to emphasise loss of control. Lights, heat, dark and cold. Random jolts to the cage to make sure he didn't sleep. Enough of that would send anyone out there.

"You are going to answer a few of your most critical texts," Maybourne said. "If you do, you get the water."

And he'd had nothing for days.

His head was throbbing with dehydration, and he was pretty sure he'd move on to pissing blood if he took any more kicks to the kidneys. "All right." He lifted his hands up, reaching for the phone. His mouth was a dry mess.

"I will see anything before you press send," he instructed. "We have you wired." He was pretty sure they actually didn’t, because he couldn’t see any pads or anything except the wrist cuffs, so there was one play where the man was going to fail.

His phone was put in front of him, and no doubt they had been trying to get into it.

He punched his unlock code in quickly, flicking his eyes down. So, he'd been gone for six days. Six days, and it was coming up on 7pm on the sixth day. Not bad, very useful to know. Over 700 messages, nice. He swallowed. He started with the work ones first. Blakemore's clean-up, and information on the police investigating. He typed in 'stay disengaged, move watch cordon back 600m. if you hadn't already.', and turned it to Maybourne to let him see. "The work ones are cut and dry. I have a few personal contacts..."

"You leave the personal contacts," he said nodding permission to send. "They do not need to know."

He hit send, and opened up a message from Irene, even as he offered, "If you want to keep this charade up, I need to send something to John."

Irene's message was information. 'Have email confirming russian weapons shipment through Vasili."

"You don't need to send anything. You have dropped off the radar before," Maybourne said.

Dutifully, Seb typed in a response to that, and turned it around to show to Maybourne. 'Appreciate, payment already processed. Picked up that Frenchman yet?' "Not in a couple years. Not without coordinating it with him first.

"What Frenchman?" Maybourne queried, hesitating to give permission.

"David Pelletier. Upcoming liberal party leader, son of a well seated banking family. Taste for pretty women, petite, brunette." He continued to hold the phone, leaning forward with his back screaming agony at him. Breathing hurt, everything hurt. "If I don't reassure John, you'll have Sherlock Holmes to deal with."

"A self-styled consulting detective who faked his own death, and is interested in your partner." Maybourne nodded. "Do you really think he wants to you to come back? He might as well be on my payroll."

Maybe, but that was part of having a bluff, of trying a bluff. Sebastian waited, still, to hit send, not taking silence as compliance, still holding the phone. "Yes or no on this message. And he'll do it if John asks."

"Yes." Maybourne nodded. "He might appear to help, but will he really? I think you have fallen for Mr. Holmes self-publicity.

He hit send, and brought up the next one -- less interesting, about a warehouse, but it was a long string and his men were fucking morons. 'Steal the load, then burn the warehouse. If I have to do it for you, you'll regret it.' He turned it around. "I think I've been living with the twat for over a month and hate his fucking guts, but he'd do it for John."

"Mmm. Well you are still going to have to wait. Let’s see how you do getting through these," Maybourne said and nodded to that one too.

So it went like that. Steady, his answers giving Maybourne brief flashes of the reach of his empire. Organized murders in Saudi Arabia, drug deals all over England, smuggling, human trafficking, un-trafficking, more murder, kills for hire, robbery, forgery, forgery, counterfeiting artwork, money, antiques, smuggling antiques, back to smuggling again, until he'd whittled messages down to just two unread. 

John's.

'Thought you said a couple of days. Getting worried Seb, come on give me an idea when you'll be back. SH driving me nuts without you here. J' said the first and then 'Really fucking worried now. Not got a good feeling about this. Going to assume something wrong unless I hear back. Love you."

He turned the phone around, held it as steady as he could for Maybourne. "Well? Your call." Not that he was sure he was really on the ball enough to thread a message through whatever platitudes he could give. But six days. Six days was a long time, and he'd gotten so much better at talking to John before he fucked off.

Maybourne narrowed his eyes a little. "One text then," he said. "Nothing too fancy. Just say you're okay and you'll be in touch."

It took him a moment to find his own words after hearing Maybourne say that, and he had to close his eyes before he answered. 'Sorry. Just part of the on goings. Love you, give Becks a hug for me. Sorry I missed dinner.' He turned the phone around, and waited. 

He received a nod, after intense scrutiny was paid to the message. "Fine. You may drink the water." Maybourne leaned back watching him intensely.

He hit send, turned his phone off, set it down and leaned -- fuck, fuck fuck, if there was a way to just cut his back out with a knife and live, he would've --leaned forward against stabbing sheer pain to grab the glass. "I don't even care if you've drugged it," he declared before taking a slow swig. 

"We shall see," Maybourne replied noncommittally. "You see how much more pleasant it is when you cooperate? Are you ready to start handing over the reins? Relieve yourself of the responsibility?"

He kept drinking -- steady, not choking, not wasting it, just drinking -- and didn't answer until he was done. Seb set the glass down carefully. "I do that, you'll kill me."

"So cynical," Maybourne smiled. "You are the centre of the web, but you don't have anything except connections. Transfer the connections and you have no power -- therefore, no influence."

There had been something in the water, he was sure of it, something mellow and agreeable.

"And no reason to keep me alive," Sebastian agreed, licking his bottom lip and focusing, concentrating. He just needed to keep a hold of everything, to keep playing the game. To keep it all up in the air, and not think and. Focus.

"No reason to kill you," Maybourne said. "Cooperation... I don't want to kill you Colonel Moran." Like he was going to believe that.

He lifted his cuffed hands, rubbed at the side of his jaw with the back of his hand. "I lie for a living, mate. Why on god's green earth would I believe you?"

"What else can you do? We will break you, you know that. You can already feel it happening can't you?" Maybourne leaned a little closer. "That grip slipping, the monsters coming out to play. We have stronger toys, stronger drugs, but I'd prefer to be civil."

He held his cuffed hands in front of him, and leaned back in the chair, hearing vertebrae crack and pop and scissor pain down his spine. He wasn't going to respond to that, wasn't going to internalize it. He'd lived a good life, had a lot of good times. Had a *lot* of fucking good, outrageous times. Lot of laughs, lot of thrills, lot of really good sex. John fucking him blindfolded and cuffed, facedown, hard and slow and languid into the mattress, until every motion had felt hyper sensitive, until he could feel John blink against the skin of his shoulders and he'd begged quietly or else he wouldn't get what he wanted.

Fuck his memory, that was a good one that he was going to turn over for a while when he got back to his cage.

"Just shoot me already. Eh? Go on, just fucking shoot me already. The web'll collapse and you can catch all the strings when they go loose in the air."

"And a lot of good contacts will drop in the collapse. We don't want to lose them," Maybourne said. "We can and will up the intensity. You will tell us one way or another."

Fine. Fine. He was almost sure he even said it aloud, but mostly he closed his eyes. Sometimes the best way to resist was to say not a damn thing, and to sink back into his memories.

* * *

John stared at the text message. It still wasn't right. None of it was right and he had gradually ratcheted up in anxiety over the six days Seb had been missing until he had started racking his brains for what to do. The message should be reassuring, but it wasn't, it made things worse. It was more than a little wrong to him.

"Something is definitely wrong," he said showing Sherlock the phone, the message on his screen "I know it."

Sherlock's eyes flicked up briefly, and then he reached to take John's phone from him with a sigh. "Is this what love does, John? Turns a man's mind to mush." He scanned it quickly, though, and John watched, watched to see him respond. Sherlock flicked back, started to read older messages, and John barely restrained himself, because they were just mundane conversations. Hello, you. Want a ride home? Be home late. Dinner reservations, picking you up? Bear sausage dinner?

"Well. It's a bit overemotional, but he tends to get that way when he's sleep deprived. Nothing says "I love you' like 4am messaging, usually, does it? Strange of him to mention his sister. Why can't he tell that to her himself, he's got a phone."

"Look, Seb texts anywhere up to two days missing. After that, he calls," John said. "He always calls. And the thing about Becks... You said she was worried about something. Maybe it's a message." He started pacing but his goddamn leg had started hurting again.

"He does like to think of himself as clever, doesn't he? I'm sure it's a message. It's awkward and out of place for him." Sherlock stood up, pacing suddenly, walking toward the window. "Call her. Or, skip to the source -- go speak with my brother. She was worried, she was putting out an exceedingly nice spread. I suspected it might be to impress, but people do this when they subconsciously think they might not see someone again. It's oddly logical, actually, as a manifestation of denial of the evidence an individual is presented and it's been reported as occurring before suspected suicides."

John stared at him, horror settling into his bones. He'd half hoped Sherlock would tell him he was being ridiculous. "Fine. I want to go now. Where will he be?"

Sherlock glanced at the nearest clock, and uttered, "Diogenes," before grabbing for his coat. "Tell me, what do you think happened?"

"I… don't..." No, he had to stop panicking. And he was panicking in a controlled fashion but it was the out of control feeling he recognised. "If he is texting like that, he is being watched, so he... Someone has him. Must do. Somebody forcing him to text or monitoring.”

"Which means he's alive. Mentioning his sister bizarrely like that is all but proof of life. Send a response in an hour, and we'll see what it gets us." Sherlock held the front door open briefly, and John barely managed to shrug his coat on in that time, hanging on tight to his phone. "The man runs an empire from his phone and that laptop, but he was born before this digitized era. He uses it well, but it's a tool. Unlike with Irene, whatever they're looking for isn't in his phone, it's in his skull."

"Seb is the one that held it together for Moriarty, he made it work," John said heading out at speed. "Without him it would never have lasted. Moriarty was too..." He gestured randomly.

"Yes, and now he's doing the same for my brother," Sherlock pointed out as they hit the street and started to look for a taxi. "It's not clever, but it's very workmanlike, isn't it? The constant act of making things work. Of living life from one moment to another like some animal. When we find him -- and we will, John -- try asking him about a week in the future. Two weeks out. A month out. Nothing work related, he keeps it all in shelves in his head pre-organised by hits and likely the weight of explosives required. And he'll just stare, like you're a talking animal in a kid's TV show. It's really brilliant fun. I wonder if that was the way it was before Moriarty as well." 

A taxi pulled up.

He knew all that, but John had been like that himself while Sherlock had gone, and he knew it. He'd started to coax Seb out, help to draw him out and had helped himself in the process. "You don't know everything about him Sherlock," he said as they got in the taxi and Sherlock selected the club as a destination. "Moriarty screwed him over when he was most hurt."

"Is that what he told you?" Sherlock almost sounded offended as he asked that question. "That he was a perfectly normal sort of person before Jim, and it was all big bad Moriarty's fault? And if that was what he said, you *fell* for it? I've never seen him present any such story. He's completely uncomfortably open about what he does and who he is and everyone he interacts with in the normal world has constructed some structure of denial to support their point of view about the man. He kidnapped, terrorised and poisoned those children. He had a sight aimed on you, twice. And then I suspect he got Chinese takeout, sat down for an episode of Eastenders, checked his email, and likely masturbated himself to sleep because there is something *broken* in him."

John stared at Sherlock. "Bloody hell, you're jealous," he said finally. He never thought he'd see the day. "You are actually jealous of him."

It was all there in the huffed noise Sherlock gave, the way he rolled his eyes and snapped, "No, god no I'm not jealous of some hybridized Neanderthal, why would I be jealous of a shit like Moran?"

Why indeed. "You’re showing all the signs. Over emotional response, negative speculation. You tell me Sherlock, why are you jealous of him?" John asked. "Because I want to find him. I'm in love with him and he’s been freaking out that I've been pining for you for years."

Sherlock was quiet, mouth actually shut for once. They were almost to the club by the time John heard Sherlock's fingers drumming on the side of the door. "I never expected you to pine for me."

"That wasn't down to you, was it?" John said. "I was just as broken as he was. The two of us collateral damage in the great game. You don't get to request or deny that sort of reaction, there is no control." They'd pieced each other together. John had held Seb together and then when he was shot, Seb had held him together.

He hadn’t expected it. He hadn’t really expected Seb to have the capacity to do that, because he saw the limits Seb worked within. John understood those limits, accepted them. But he’d been there, loyally, every waking second. Even when John kicked him out in gentle ways, he came back in the middle of the night and John woke up with him serving quiet half asleep vigil, turned off cell phone still clutched in his hand, leaning against the bed railings. He’d patiently coaxed John through recovery, through healing, through physio and not even flinched when John got angry because he didn’t like having unexpected limitations to be worked through all over again. He’d handled the media and…

Just done everything unwaveringly, content with John’s company through it all. Sherlock was brilliant sharp fire, but Seb was present _everywhere,_ and if he wasn’t persistent, he was stubborn as hell. After all that time, Seb’s fascination with touching him and _being_ there, funny, off kilter, comfortable, easy with his affections with John.

Sherlock didn’t have anything else smart to say, which was a relief as the taxi stopped, dropping them off. He was probably having an obscene argument with himself, which might bubble up when John least expected it.

This wasn't about them, though. This was about Seb. He'd gone after him before when Mycroft had him, having only known him for a short period of time. He would do not less now. John was out the car in a shot, striding into the club as best his aching leg would allow, with Sherlock and his long coat billowing in his wake. If Mycroft had set Seb up he would not be happy. It was fortunate that his often forgotten knighthood had its privileges because he was ushered in without hesitation to see Mycroft.

"Mycroft," he said without preamble, once they were shown to the quiet side room where talking was allowed. "Where’s Seb?"

Mycroft took a sip of his tea, and set the cup down in a slow, unconcerned manner. "That is a very good question. He was last seen on cctv being dragged into the back of a white, unmarked panel truck. The plates were stolen, of course. That was six days ago, and we are still attempting to locate them." Six days. Six -- that was the morning after the kidnapping case, when Blakemore had been killed. "It was just before the police arrived to a crime scene, a murder, I believe. Conveniently, the heavy traffic which followed did away with any useful evidence they may have left on the scene. So, to answer your question, I suppose 'with the Americans' will suffice?"

All his fears realised. John could feel himself clench his jaw. "And why the hell did you not tell me? Don't you think I might want to know, or would it disturb one of your precious plans?"

"He doesn't know." Sherlock inclined his head slightly, watching his brother. "This is what Rebecca was concerned about, wasn't it? Because she knew you were setting her brother up. And he knew as well."

"There's been an incursion by the Americans into European and British crime. We've watched and dealt with it, as appropriate, and I had believed this was an opportunity to seize their ringleaders. Unfortunately, Colonel Moran had insufficient backup present with him when they struck, and we were unable to muster a response in a timely manner." Pat, calm, easy, with Mycroft glaring daggers at his brother when he said it.

"I'm afraid the self-incriminating nature of it will not allow it."

"If he starts to talk, brother dear, you're going to have a lot more to worry about than a few incriminating documents. I'm sure he's sitting on more than a few state secrets, but that's part of your deal, isn't it? You keep him out of prison, he does things like, oh, I don't know, wipes out the political opposition in a country where you have an interest in the ruling party."

Mycroft looked uncomfortable -- at least there was a twitch to his eye that betrayed him and John had enough.

"Give us the information, and we will do this. No trace back to you," John said. "I don't care about your... plans, I just want him back. If you want to mop up after we're done, that’s up to you, otherwise I *will* go to some of Seb's colleagues and we will be doing it our way."

Sheppard. He would be a link in. Irene and Sheppard. He could get to Irene, and from her to Sheppard and the rest of the network.

"It might be preferable to the routes I'd give you. The American Government has an interest in getting a foothold in our... capabilities." He hesitated when he said that, 'our capabilities'. "These things happen between allied nations, unfortunately, particularly when the actors it concerns are considered disposable. We had a trace on his cell phone, for example, but the clever bastard disabled it." Mycroft shrugged his shoulders. "I suspect using your route may be faster."

"We still want the files," Sherlock reiterated, putting a hand on John's shoulder. "Let's not waste any more time here, then. I know where 'the woman' can be found."

Of course Sherlock would be several steps ahead already. Mycroft nodded to his assistant -- not Becks, John noted with a faint relief and the files were brought through. They were disturbingly slim, but they would do. He ironically had more faith in Seb's network to move quickly than Mycroft’s and he passed them to Sherlock, not caring about wanting to interpret it himself. Sherlock would do it faster and speed was more important than ego. They were out of there fast and moving to find Irene. John was focused, on a mission, unaware of his expression that seemed to have silenced even Sherlock.

The silence lasted about fifteen minutes, and they were well on their way to a different part of Belgravia by the time Sherlock stopped mulling over the files. "He's been doing things MI5 would've shuddered to contemplate. I think that's what the Americans are interested in, but he does those himself, doesn't he? No support network really for that. They're going after the wrong thing."

"They want their crack team and how they do it and it's actually Seb?" John queried. Seb could be a one man disaster area when he got going.

"Yes. And they've probably incapacitated him," Sherlock murmured, inclining his head slightly at John. "Irony of ironies. They've no doubt failed to ask the correct questions."

"They won't believe one person was capable of pulling off those jobs," John said. In one way that was terrifying because of what they would do to Seb to get to the truth and in another it was a relief because they would keep him alive. "Who are they? Do we know or they just 'the Americans'' because I'm pretty sure Seb has a direct link with one set of Americans, who might help us out."

"A former airforce colonel, and a few operatives of no interesting import. With the National Intelligence Institute. So, sanctioned at some level. Do you know how to contact Moran's American?" Sherlock looked down for a moment and glanced over at John. The taxi was cruising to a stop.

"Irene will know. Sheppard... smuggler, side line in antiquities," he replied. "Agencies can stretch their remit and they won't want to get caught. Irene been texting you again?" With a less obvious text alert obviously.

"Mm." Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, and pushed the taxi door open. It was a new building that he was leading the way to, leaving John to follow him. It was a shame he didn't have to punch Sherlock this time, that there was no necessary charade.

Although ultimately it had turned out to be unnecessary. He followed Sherlock as they rang the bell and then were ushered in without hesitation, although they were left waiting for some few minutes before Irene appeared. It left him feeling wound tight and oddly helpless in the face of it.

"Ah, Sherlock, John," she smiled as she breezed in wearing a translucent green ensemble. "Imagine my surprise at you turning up during working hours." She really did only have eyes for Sherlock, John noted that. He was fine with that as long as it got him what he wanted.

"I hope you're not occupied at the moment." Sherlock was eyeing her, his mouth quirking a little. "We need information. Colonel Moran has gone missing."

"Not so missing that he isn't answering his texts," Irene said lounging elegantly. "I received an answer myself tonight."

"But delayed," John said feeling sure. "Wasn't it? Normally he would respond pretty quickly. We know he's been taken by some Americans and I want to get a hold of Sheppard and his crew. He is most likely to have had dealings with people who know them."

"You expect me to put you in contact with these individuals... Based on the Colonel being late with a few texts." Irene raised her eyebrows, watching John suddenly. He didn't need to be watched just then.

"Yes." Sherlock said it plainly, glancing around the room. "Tell me, when was the last time he ignored messages for quite that long?"

"When John was languishing at deaths door," she admitted finally.

"Irene, please," John said. "You know we'll owe you. Seb will owe you. If someone has him..."

"You don't need to tell me how very bad that is, John. For you, at least. For stability as well." He probably kept more of his operatives safe than he tidied away. "If you'll wait here."

He'd wait, he had nothing else he could do. He nodded even as Sherlock's attention flickered around the room taking it all in. He sat down a moment trying not to imagine what they had done to Seb over the last six days. Torture, persuasion, whatever the hell they called it. But there had been texts, not just to him. Irene as well. He had to be functioning -- they wouldn't know about Becks having that version of a nickname. They wouldn't know some of the things and if Sherlock was right, they were going to be trying to get him to reveal something that didn't exist. They probably couldn't imagine a manager who was also the task force.

If he didn't know Seb, and how much he quite enjoyed it, he wouldn’t have believed it, either. So, he was alert, for the moment. That was good, that was a start. There might be more breadcrumbs that popped up, if he'd started to make communications. 

"He's been protecting Irene's operations," Sherlock murmured, eyes scanning the room while they waited, looking bored. "It takes substantial efforts."

"Then she owes him," John replied. He hadn't forgotten the hints she had dropped either. Obvious in retrospect. "They all owe him and I am going to collect. That protection should run both ways. None of them wanted to take leadership when he was out of the picture for a couple of weeks."

Sherlock snorted. "Why bother when someone else takes all the heat for a nominal fee? It's market capitalism. It takes too much of their own time to coordinate, when they could be doing *whatever else* they want. I'm sure there were sighs of relief when he resumed coordination this afternoon."

"I just hope Sheppard has a clue who this guy is. What was his name again?" John asked, fidgeting with his leg again. Dammit but it was cramping again.

He thought that'd *stopped*. It *had* stopped, which made it all the more maddening for it to come back now. 

"Maybourne," Sherlock uttered. "Harry Maybourne. I'm sure he'd going about this all wrong. He thinks he knows Moran's type."

"What does he think he has?" John asked, impatient for her to come back. Six days, six days of who the hell knew what treatment.

"Why, fellow middle management." Sherlock was tenting his fingers, and he didn't need John just then for deep thought. It made the silence worse, not better, so it was a relief when Irene finally opened the door and stepped inside, closin it behind her again.

"He'll meet you tomorrow, at noon. I'll give you an address. He's going to see what he can find in the meantime. I'm unsure if he believes me, but it's to his benefit as well to verify and investigate."

"I appreciate it," John said as Irene sat again. "What did he reply to you? Sid it seem like him?" How much damage had they done to him? It made the rage rise up again.

"He's usually..." Irene's mouth poised a little, as if she was picking words carefully before she went on, "Sharper. There are things he would have usually asked. He just accepted it and asked about some inconsequential item."

"Attempting to not give away the keys to the kingdom," Sherlock murmured, standing up. "Have you replied? Would you pass a message on to him?"

"As long as it does not openly compromise my work, yes," Irene agreed and John nodded. He hoped Sherlock knew what he was doing, because Seb would not be firing on all cylinders.

There was no way he could be, no matter what the circumstances were. "'Target acquired in Warsaw. Bodyguard problematic, suggestions?' This will require him to be able to make up a story for a response, and given how much time he spent dwelling on it, he'll understand the other layers to the message."

"Do I even want to know what that means?" John asked. "Forget it, just... if it works do it."

Irene texted absently. "There. Now is that all you need from me? Because I left someone dangling... so to speak."

"We'll see ourselves out." Sherlock stood up, wrapping his coat around himself as he all but charged the door. John was used to that, it had been the way of things for a long time. "Now, to perform a minor amount of research, and wait. Oh, you should send that response now."

"What me? What should I ask?" John hesitated as they left Irene to go about her business.

"Whatever you'd normally ask him after six days without coming home." He looked askance at John as they headed for the door.

"No secret messages , no deviousness?" he asked. He had already sent a basic reply earlier when he had finally heard from Seb. "Okay, I'll send something."

He thumbed a message. 'Miss you. Love you. Hope you are making our favourite breakfast when you get home... can't wait to have you back." He meant it, oh god, he meant that.

Sherlock had been looking at him, and looked away to flag down a taxi. "Good. Now let's get back and see what else there is to come up with." It didn't make sense for Sherlock to direct him to leave a message like that, unless he thought it would accomplish something.

"Yeah," he said heavily as he pressed send and the text winged its way through the ether. "Yeah, sounds like a plan." A very thin, fly by the seat of their pants plan, but a plan none the less. That was probably all he could hope for.

He was going to hold on, and just. Wait.

* * *

It didn't surprise him that the next interrogation session started what felt like. Maybe a day later? He wasn't really sure, what with not having a clock and mostly focusing on existing. He had to admit that, finally, maybe, just fucking maybe, he was starting to break a little at the edges. He was thirsty again, and hungry, and cold and sore, which was fine. It was the pain and the drugs combined that were starting to get to him. And that he was more aware of what was going on than his captors, because they were good but they were comparative amateurs about it in the end. They were going to kill him from dehydration before they got what they wanted, without really realising it, and how stupid a fucking way was that to die?

Moronic.

"And here we are again," Maybourne said, putting his phone in front of him and a pint of water. "Same deal. Although, you know they really want me to put pressure on you. More pressure."

"If you were a little more specific on what you were looking for, I might be amenable." On covering it up quicker. He didn't reach for his phone again. "I mean, this all has to be excruciatingly boring shit to you."

"We know you have resources that you are concealing from us," Maybourne said. "That much is obvious. We want access to your...specialists shall we call it?"

"My specialists?" He exhaled slowly. "Which specialists? I'm afraid I'm not particularly following you?"

"Your black ops teams," Maybourne frowned. "You are trying my patience Sebastian. I warn you not to continue doing so."

He licked his bottom lip, trying to get his heart rate down. Fucking hell, they were morons. "I want some of that water first. Then I'll tell you."

"You don't get to bargain. Texts first then we'll see about water," Maybourne replied.

He reached for the phone with a bit of frustration, jaw clenching as he punched in his unlock code quickly, started to scroll through the texts. "You're not going to get what you want this way. I don't text what you're looking for."

"Oh we still want all the information, but let’s just say I have a personal interest in that particular resource of yours," he said gesturing.

So they played the game again -- he kept his answers as short and vague as possible, showed them to the man, explained where he had to, adding slowly to each bit of extra information the man wanted. He was tired and ragged and thirsty enough to do it and just get it done. The problem with answering his people was that it spawned more messages, more contacts. There was more that time than the last time.

John's message made him falter a little, and he turned it around to show the man. "Can I answer this?"

Maybourne made a distasteful expression but nodded. "Yes. Go ahead."

It was short, and his head was still lagging a little, thick. He hesitated for a moment, because Warsaw, and Irene and Sherlock Holmes. So they were looking for him, and that was good. He'd sent back a play along message, but no useful content he could think to add; this, though... This. 'Ha, I'd fucking kill to make hotcakes and blueberry compote. Middle of bloody nowhere, reception can't hold a call. Get some sleep.' He turned the message around, waiting for permission. 

He received a nod and away it went, and he knew John would know it was him. That was something at least. John was looking for him, and that was… that was good to know. That someone would come after him.

"Now before you drink... the special ops team. Who are they? How do you activate them?"

"Well, I check their schedule first." He set the phone down, because he was a good liar but he was feeling strained and edgy and he was having trouble coming up with things, with stories that could hold their water. "Then I look them in the mirror, and ask myself if it sounds like something I can pull off. Never had to say no to one yet." He worked his jaw for a moment. "It's just me."

Maybourne laughed. "Good one...torture has not dimmed your sense of humour I see. Tell me or no water and... I let the boys have some stress relief."

He laughed a little, slouching back in the chair. "Right, well, we've come to a fucking conundrum, haven't we? Cause I'm it. It's why Moriarty hired me. I'm a sniper first, but I'm handy with explosives. I had a fucking *brilliant* time blowing up your embassy in Lima. Took me weeks to come down off that high. The silver paint, the aluminium powder -- picked that trick up in Afghanistan, but you know, packing a truck bomb with it was just, mmm, spark of genius. I blame Jim's influence, he loved a showy explosion."

"You are telling me it was one person… you, who took out Lima?" Maybourne was not amused. "You think it's going to get you anywhere to be this obstinate?"

"I think unfortunately it's true," Sebastian offered, "And that I have no 'team' to put you in contact with because I fucking *am* the team. If Moriarty only needed a fucking middle manager, mate, he'd've hired you."

It looked like Maybourne had finally lost patience. "Teach him a lesson," he said and deliberately took the glass and threw the water in his face. "That's all the drink you’ll be getting until you start talking."

"And unfortunately for both of us, the supposed team you're looking for isn't interested in working for a jackass American twat!" They were hauling him out of the chair fast, and he fought this time -- he didn't have a lot of energy to spare, but fuck if he was going quietly that time. He twisted and managed to bring his hands up and start choking one of the bastards out. 

If they were going to teach him a lesson, he was going to fucking well earn it first.

But as worn down as he was with no food, little to drink, drugs and sleep deprivation, he couldn’t take them for all they were surprised. More men came in until everything became a blur of impact on flesh and bone, pain and darkness as he struggled and fought blindly until eventually it was too much. He could make a fair guess at what was coming, twisting and kicking still when one of them pinned him to the floor with a foot between his shoulder blades, his hands caught between him and the floor, up on his knees until some bastard kicked him in the side hard enough to make everything slide grey to black. 

And that was all right. It wasn’t a party he was much interested in staying invited to.

* * *

There was a great deal of information he wasn’t telling John. It would have been counterproductive to tell him that he estimated their time to actually retrieve Sebastian Moran as a living creature was dwindling – though doubtless John was aware of that, even if he was unwilling to admit it – given the man’s predilection towards provocation. He had honestly expected John’s text message to elicit nothing useful at all except a reminder to the captive on the other side that yes, surviving was an excellent idea, but ‘middle of nowhere’ and ‘reception can’t hold a call’ was much more informative than the half playing along made up gibberish he’d responded with to Irene. It was far too many possibilities, and no evidence to trace to a location. What he would’ve done for a single tangible piece of evidence.

Rather than another meeting with another criminal entity with whom John was far too at ease. This one was, reasonably, far less openly trusting-seeming than the front Irene put on for public consumption. 

Sheppard was an interesting one. John had said he had been their transport pilot in Afghanistan and that he wasn't the type to go crimelord. Within ten seconds of meeting him Sherlock had surmised that he was right about that. And gleaned a lot more about the man as well. Flexible, more dangerous than he appeared. A familiarity with weapons that bespoke casual daily use rather than what would have been expected for a pilot. The movement of someone trained in hand to hand, black ops very likely. It made it all the more likely that Sheppard was fronting some sort of operation for the government as well.

He had ignored most of John's impassioned appeal for help, looking at them with a polite but disinterested look. "Look, not to be rude John, but what business is it to do with me?" Sheppard said finally. "You're the British blue eyed boy here. You've got connections. He's got connections. What can I do that can scratch the surface?"

"You know Harold Maybourne," Sherlock said after a moment of watching and calculated waiting. "He's after Colonel Moran's operational team. Not the more connected thing such as, say. Antiquities that the American government is interested in having." John had said his cover was that, and previously drug runner. Sherlock was abruptly amused at the irony of two countries working together peaceably through their respective unrespectable parties.

"Maybourne?" There was a definite undercurrent there. "Shit, what the hell is he doing over here?" Sheppard moved from lounging to a definite aggressive stance.

"Going after something that doesn't exist," John said. "Even if they could crack Seb, they won't get what they want because there is no operational team."

"Then how...?" The moment he said that, Sherlock knew exactly, perfectly what had happened. It snapped together like a perfect puzzle in his mind.

"Because someone in your chain of command put two and two together and came up with six, which, while an even number is still not quite correct, is it? I thought it was strange, myself, when Moran's known mostly within London itself, and a few individuals in key countries, mostly for smuggling and 'interesting' sorts of crimes. The empire was never known for operations, per say, and locally in the media Moran's known as a shining example of living with PTSD, homosexuality in the military, and Sir John Watson's live-in who has a moderately successful military contracting business. Which made me wonder why a group of Americans would target the man when there's no viable evidence against him -- unless someone in the 'inner circle' reported out to higher headquarters from him, Major Sheppard? Or have you been promoted since? It's so hard to tell if you're still active duty or not."

Sheppard accelerated from lounging into exceptionally dangerous, pulling a gun, and John, with commendable speed did the same and stepped between then, as if that would help in the event of a headshot.

"How the hell do you..."

"Whoa, he's Sherlock Holmes, that's what he does. Consulting detective, finding clues from thin air. Believe me, I know what it is like," John said in his calming voice. "You get used to it hanging around with geniuses , I forget what it seems like the first time."

There was something about that phrase that seemed to resonate with Sheppard and he eased off. "Shep, I remember you, you're not the type to go crime lord," John continued. "So it's pretty obvious even to me you've got someone else to report to... like Maybourne."

"Or not Maybourne. Because it isn't, but you know the man. No, you work for someone you respect, even if you don't ultimately like the way you've been professionally treated." Sherlock didn't move, while John lowered his gun at the same time as Sheppard. "But you know him, and he does the same kind of work you do, in a way. Things your government doesn't want associated with you. What we need is to find Maybourne, because that's where Moran will be." 

"Maybourne has too loose a leash," Sheppard said darkly. "He doesn't have to justify things to people in the same way. I wouldn't lay odds that it is particularly a sanctioned operation because they only ever know if it is a success. Look, he's a bastard, like a goddamned cockroach... and seemingly untouchable. We've had a few... run in's with him."

"Then help us out here," John said. "If it's not sanctioned you could be furthering your end by getting in with Colonel Moran."

Yes, Sherlock was certainly sure the man would be grateful to still be alive. "If we move quickly. We're now on day seven. I don't need to tell you that time is a factor working against us at the moment, Sheppard. Do you know how to locate Maybourne?"

He watched the internal war going on in the man right up to the point where John said, "Seb'd never leave one of his men in the hands of the enemy," and that indecision snapped like an overstretched elastic band.

"Give me a few hours, I'm going to have to call in a few favours to track him down. You say he's still got his phone wherever he is?" Sheppard asked.

"But the tracker is turned off," John pointed.

"I know someone who is a little like your Sherlock Holmes here but with computers and electronics and the laws of physics. If he's traceable, we'll trace him.”

Sherlock wasn't sure he believed the man, but nodded, glancing over at John. "Then I believe we've taken up enough of your time. And we'll hear from you soon." And a few hours meant another day. Meant that he needed to keep John occupied and not dwelling for another day, needed to see what he could come to within that time.

"I'll contact you. Be ready to move fast," Sheppard said with a curt nod, and turned, already dialling on his phone. Sherlock could just hear him say "Rodney, got a favour to ask," as he headed out the door.

John exhaled. "Bit touch and go there for a while, Sherlock."

"We've achieved what we needed. No one enjoys being unmasked, but given that he was the source of the information in the first place, I don't particularly care what emotions the man is wrestling with." And obviously he was wrestling, as John managed to trigger him into action with a hackneyed leave no man behind statement. They headed out onto the street, walking fast. "We'll go to Baker Street and wait."

"I don't know if I can stand waiting. He said to be ready to move. Are we doing this alone?" John asked.

Not if his appraisal of Sheppard was correct. Especially as he reacted to the possibility of being responsible, as well as leaving people behind. Potent pressure points.

"I'll call Lestrade. I'm sure Sheppard will be assisting as well." He tucked his hands into his coat pockets, scanning the street as they moved into busier areas. "I know my brother won't lend a hand."

"He should. He owes us," John said a little bitterly. "But I don't need his help." He looked at Sherlock. "Thank you for doing this."

He shrugged his shoulders, glancing to see if there were any taxis coming. "I'd rather not have our ability to solve cases falter. You'd become completely insufferable with grief if someone kills Moran. And he isn't altogether intolerable as an individual. "

John stared at him. "Did you just say you… like Seb? I mean, you've never really said you even like me most of the time, Sherlock."

"Of course I 'like' you, if you insist on using teenage girl vernacular, John. I said he was not entirely intolerable. He's childish, but surprisingly capable. Your capable-ness is no longer surprising to me in nature. You have always been a very capable companion." It pained him to have to explain that, because he was sure he'd assured John of such years ago. 

He stepped forward, and hailed a taxi.

John was staring at him stunned and a little jaw dropped, and really did people need to hear things that frequently? He would have thought the facts would speak for him in the absence of an exchange of words. 

"I'm capable... My god, I never thought I'd hear you be so gushing in your praise." What was interesting was that John had lost some of that desperation that marked him around his eyes and he nearly smiled.

He grimaced as he looked sideways at John just as the taxi piled up. "You still have your limitations, of course. Get in, you need time to pace or limp restlessly while I do useful research."

"Yes well, thanks for that Sherlock. Maybe I should check my medical supplies," he said getting in with him. "I intend to be ready to walk out the door when Sheppard gives the say so."

"It's still going to be hours," Sherlock warned quietly, before directing the taxi driver to take them home. There was sadly nothing to do but wait.

* * *

There was, actually, a point where even rough sex became painful, where every motion was an agony, where it hurt to breathe. The hurting to breathe part was fast becoming just a new standard that he was adjusting to, as was being propped up in a chair again, hands cuffed in front of him again after a few other configurations. He didn't really have the capacity to think it over yet, couldn't let himself.

"Once again Moran, give me the special ops team," Maybourne persisted, not believing him. "We've got information from your equipment, but who are they? How do you contact them, how do you pay?"

Fuck. He closed his eyes. "I'm telling you, it's me. I pay myself by skimming money off the top of the larger takes," Seb reiterated, mouth a tight line as he opened his eyes to look at Maybourne. "You're looking at it."

He was seeing things now. Moriarty standing behind Maybourne smiling with that look that meant trouble. Anything from a weekend of fun or a small country going up in flames.

He was struck again, punch to the gut and Jim tsked. "Well, that's no good is it?" he said in that familiar playful lilt. "A love tap and he won't even get you off. What a cocktease."

"Oh, fuck off. You're dead," he muttered, heaving for air. "You stupid fucks, you, I'll kill you all..."

"There's my Seb. The blind, wounded animal, struggling to live even while I open a vein and let the blood pump out." Jim's presence blotted out whatever Maybourne was saying as the whisper echoed in his ear. "You'll be back with me soon. I'll rip the taint out of you. Sentimentality, love... All of it. Missteps in a dance."

He whined, swallowing and leaning forward. The feeling of being hit again filtered through him, left him shaking and focused on breathing. "Fuck you, I've survived, you threw it away..."

"Threw it away? No, I burned at my peak. Blaze of glory, the relief... like a lifetime of waiting to come, and there I found it. You loved that blaze and you know I could never survive being beaten. I never lose, even if it took my life, your life and the whole damn WORLD!"

Jim's eyes filled his vision, darkly compelling. "Break, break, break for me Seb, jagged little pieces, sparkling like black diamonds." His laugh was vicious and feral and familiar.

He was trying hard to hold it together, but why? Why? It didn't hurt any less, didn't make anything easier for him to not give in. The fucking idiot wasn't going to listen and he was sure his broken rib was killing him. "No."

"You say no but you always mean yes," Jim crooned in his ear. "Oh, it’s great to let go Seb. Everyone left you, didn't they? And you know that it was your fault in the end. Logic tells you that. Once is a tragedy, but two of them? And then three with me? All of us committing suicide? Can you see a common factor Seb? Can you? Can you? CAN YOU?"

He reached to grab at Jim. "You didn't even think of me when you did it. Don't put that on me, don't put that shit on me!"

"Did you think I ever really thought of you except what you were in relation to me?" Jim said, apparently untroubled by being gripped. "Does anyone? Does your John? Ask him one day what I did when we were alone, ask him... I double dare you. While you were checking the perimeter. I bet he's never told anyone but every time you are together, I'm there in his mind. What a noble sacrifice to suffer your touch..."

"Shut up!" He was screaming it, shaking Jim, but it was true. He never stood alone, he was using what Jim built, it was all Jim's, and it was only a freak act of God, of *Jim* that any of it was there.

And it was Jim there, eyes dark, and bright, a splatter crimson on his face, a smile on his lips as blood seeped from his mouth and splattered grey tissue spread around the room. All he was dissolving in one soggy inelegant disintegrating mass while his eyes fixed on something he couldn't see, leaving him behind.

Then it was John he was choking, that pale and fragile look of the hospital bed, sickening and gut wrenchingly terrifying. He stopped, froze, had to, couldn't, it was *John*, but then it was Jim again, overlapping, switching, shifting, and he didn't know what to do when he was faced with that, dropping instead because nothing was working, nothing was getting *better*, and he could still hear Jim laughing.

"Seb? Come on, focus..." John's voice again, sounding close. "Come on, open your eyes, I'm here."

He shook his head, because that, that didn't make sense. The second time he heard it, he did open his eyes, and everything was still swimming and insensate but... But maybe that was John. "John?"

"I've got you, it's me, we're here, we found you okay? Bloody hell, even having lost weight you're difficult to carry," John replied. "Your pupils are completely blown - you with me? I've got some water here."

"He's a little tall for that to work. Hold on, the cop guy's calling emergency." Voice he didn't really recognise, still focused on John because, fuck. John, John was there, and he moved his hands to try to touch him. Still a trick then, because the cuffs jerked immediately.

"Easy, your wrists are a mess. Anyone got a handcuff key?" There was the touch at the back of his neck, familiar and careful. "Sheppard, where the hell is Sherlock?"

"Exploring. He's coming back this way." Seb closed his eyes, focusing on John's lingering fingers, the bruise edge he could feel. He exhaled hard, trying to sort it out of the other noises in the background, the feeling of Jim at the edges of his mind. Why was Sheppard there, and Sherlock, and John? John. Jim had done things to John, why was John there?

"Please..."

“Drink this, you're badly dehydrated," John murmured holding him against him. "We're getting you out of here... you'd get on well with Sheppard, he's a bit of a one man army as well. C'mon, drink. Sheppard, I need to get these cuffs off of him."

"Here, I found a blanket. He's shaking." The feeling of it being draped across his shoulders made him flinch as he drank. If it was John, really John, it was all right. If it wasn't, well. He was fucked and he was past caring, past trying to fight what had to be a really excellent hallucination. 

The drink was taken away. "Sorry Seb, only a bit in case you have internal injuries… oh thanks. Okay, a key, hold still." And there, blessed freedom from the tight metal of his cuffs. "I need to just put something on that, they are bad enough already." The whiteness of a field dressing wrapped carefully around his wrists. "You still with me Seb?"

He swallowed, concentrating for a moment. "Not really, no." But John was there, or thought he was, so Seb leaned into him and closed his eyes a little. It felt good to not have the cuffs around his wrists, but he wasn't really sure he could move enough to be of any use. "Was just having an argument with Jim."

"Yeah, you were yelling a lot when we burst in," John said in a gentle tone.

"Maybourne tried to use you as a human shield. I winged the bastard," Sheppard said. "Look, your guy Lestrade is mopping up but I've got to get after him... if I can pin this on him, there's a whole mess of people who will be pretty damn pleased."

"Go. Kill him," John said and turned back to Seb. "We'll get you to hospital soon. You're beaten to crap."

He snorted, and leaned his head on John's shoulder. All right, maybe it was real. Fuck, everything still hurt, breathing still hurt, and he just wanted to pretend none of it had ever happened. Maybe it was easier that way. Just, nothing. Nothing happened, that was the way to handle it. "Not really shocked."

"You're alive, you are here. I'm…" John sounded like his voice was breaking. "I th… thought we wouldn't make it here in time. Okay, I'm going to do some examinations on you okay? See how bad you are."

He shook his head, not wanting to move. "No. No." He just wanted to sit still and not move and not make anything hurt worse and be still. Seb closed his eyes tightly, because everything was still swimming and half hallucinogenic colours even with his eyes closed. "Don't be a doctor right now. Just."

"Okay, okay..." John murmured. "Just for a moment." His arm was around him, and he was solid and warm. 

"Paramedics on their way," Lestrade's voice said. "Jesus..."

"He's okay," John said firmly. "He's going to be okay."

Sort of had to be. Suck it up and move on. He could sit there for a minute, feeling blank and hollowed out and pain, and relief and John's arm around his shoulders. Fabric of the blanket, cold cement floor under them, John's familiar smell, the little things that didn't make it into hallucinations quite right, the harder edges of reality. He swallowed again, still focused on breathing, on John, on not reacting. It wasn't the time, there were people there. 

"Every day above ground's a good one."

John's hands were moving on him a little. "I'm checking you out, in a medical way," he said softly. "You don't need to worry, I'm not going anywhere."

"Aside from to the hospital obviously," Sherlock said. "Rapidly, before he goes into shock."

"Sherlock..." John warned.

"On the way," Lestrade emphasized. "We're just sort of in the middle of bloody nowhere."

"Stop. 's a broken rib." He moved his hand enough to press fingers hard against John's hip, shaking. There were too many injuries and he could feel the memory of every one crowding him out as John's moving hands touched each spot. So many bruises, and the last day had been quite, quite bad, fucking horrible, and all there as soon as he started to think about it, faces and pain and someone threatening to break his fingers if he didn't cooperate. He needed his fingers, couldn’t pull a trigger or handle a rifle or *work* without them. It was worse, somehow, to cooperate there. "Trying to not think."

"Okay, sorry." He stopped for all of thirty seconds before looking elsewhere. "Easy... we've got a few fractures here."

He groaned, teeth clenching, still shaking. "John. Fuck, *stop*. I swear to god, I'll fucking punch you if you don't stop." His voice broke, and there was no hiding it, but he could feel his heart rate ratcheting up, and he was trying, just trying to appreciate the fact that he was alive and in pain rather than dead and not in pain, which wasn't really fucking fair, was it?

The examination stopped. "I... okay." John sounded worried. Obviously his physical state was worrying John a lot, but fuck. How many times did he have to tell him to stop? 

“Through here," Lestrade said as the paramedics arrived. 

They were a rush of noise into the room, and he opened his eyes, staring into the fabric of John’s coat, and mostly wishing he didn’t have to move at all. But damn John was an efficient doctor, and helped the paramedics, got him to move to the gurney with assistance. Stretching out on the gurney was worse somehow, made his back seize with pain anew, stretched tight muscles, made him feel every injury. He could vaguely hear Sherlock pondering aloud if a panic attack helped or hindered hypovolemic shock. He wished he wasn’t conscious, listening to the paramedics ask John if he had any known allergies as they started to move out, feeling them sliding a needle in the inside of his arm. Hell of a way to finally leave the building that he’d been dragged bodily into, feigning compliance.

He was still feigning compliance, he supposed, because he wanted to sit still and quiet with John until things started to make sense again, until it all stopped hurting

He was aware of John stroking his hair as they were put in the back of the ambulance. "They don't want to give you too many drugs right now until they know what you were given, so just lie still," John murmured. "We've put a drip in to rehydrate you some..." It was a quiet moment, the two of them back there, and John making sure he was touching his hand or hair at all times.

Not at all subtle, but appreciated, while he focused on breathing because the problem with gurneys was all of the useful ‘no one wants you falling out in a moving vehicle’ straps, and he could feel every last one of them just then, as well as John's lingering fingers against his scalp. The last thing anyone needed just then was for him to give in to the rising anxiety in his chest and freak the fuck out. He kept his eyes on the ceiling, because it was easier, because he didn't really trust himself with words just then. "Sorry."

"Hey, no need to be sorry," John murmured, leaning into his vision, smiling a little. "You're going to be okay, I'm going to stay with you, I'm not going anywhere. You're going to be home soon enough and I'll spoil you rotten."

Yeah, okay. He managed an exhalation that might've passed as a laugh, a faint nod to go with it. Never mind he should've gotten himself out. He really just wanted to go home. John's fingers in his hair shifted a little, and he managed another nod, before closing his eyes. If he was going to get through it until they gave him something for the pain, he needed to not think.

* * *

They were lucky that Seb turned out not to have internal bleeding, though he did have broken ribs and fractures. It was more the cocktail of drugs that was the concern, some of which were not immediately identifiable and they made him wait at the hospital until his blood tests were clear. John was pretty sure they would not have released Seb without John declaring he was a doctor himself and promising to stay with him, and that Seb was already showing signs of being the type of patient that couldn't believe he was really hurt that badly once they started giving him the painkillers.

Getting him back and installed in Baker Street was an exercise almost as complex as the rescue operation. Sherlock was good at observing but not at helping and his assistance had mainly come down to commenting on the way he was hauling Seb up the stairs.

He'd opted for the "nest" on the couch approach, partly because he could sit there too and that would discourage Seb from trying to get up all the time.

It felt more like normal, and that was what John was going for. Seb had his cell again, thanks to Sherlock's willingness to pickpocket Lestrade's people, but he was still mostly ignoring it. He was mostly ignoring everything, except, occasionally, John.

He was pretty sure Seb was trying to push the memories out of the way, and not deal with them. He had been in a full on hallucinatory delusion when they had found him, after the adrenalin pumping fight it had taken to get into the place. Shame Maybourne managed to slip out, but Sheppard had confirmed he was particularly good at that.

He brought coffee, and small treats of food, little and often for Seb, to get his system readjusted to having things again, otherwise he would be throwing up. "Here we go, weak coffee... sorry about that, and a bagel to see how your stomach is," he said sitting on the couch.

Seb reached for the coffee, wrapping his hands around it rather than taking a sip immediately. "You don't have to hover. I'm not going to..." He lifted his eyebrows a little, and seemed to think it was better to not say whatever he was thinking. Sherlock made an amused noise from his chair, staring intently at his laptop. "Oh, fuck off."

Though John gave him a look, he wasn't going to stop Sherlock. At least he got an honest reaction out of Seb. "I'm not hovering I'm... relaxing with you. Catching up on my rest as well. Besides, it’s payback for all the times I kept telling you to go off and do something else and you wouldn't." He deliberately sat so Seb could lean against him and then stretch out and lie down if he wanted using him as a pillow. Thank god they had gotten a longer couch.

It was baiting Seb, but he knew him well enough to know that if the opportunity presented itself, he'd do just what John expected. Just, slowly, after taking a few sips of his coffee, still mostly ignoring the bagel as he leaned into John. He was tense, which was strange for Seb. "It's not really revenge, is it?"

"No love," he said seriously, unconsciously gentling him. "Sorry, I was just trying to keep it light. I'm happy to be here with you, I want to be here with you."

Seb exhaled, slouching with a grimace. He looked sideways towards Sherlock, and seemed to shake his head a little. There were probably things he wanted to say, but wouldn't with him there. "I hate being out of sorts. Can't seem to..."

"It's okay," he said. He wasn't going to not say anything even if Sherlock was there. Sherlock would probably get bored soon enough and go off. "You don't have to do or try anything Seb. We can talk about it when you're ready."

"What did they tell you?" Well, more than they might've if he hadn't been a doctor as well as on all of Seb's paperwork. Still, Seb trying to work out where he stood and what John knew was... Novel, in an unfortunate and unfamiliar way.

"That you were tortured, deprived of food and water, extensively drugged, kept in a cage and generally beaten. I know your physical situation," John said truthfully. "Otherwise… the details I don't know."

Seb reached for the bagel, started to rip it apart slowly, with a lot of focus. "The cage was electrified," he offered.

"Classic brain-washing techniques. Ensuring disrupted sleep patterns, disrupting cognitive functioning," Sherlock chipped in from the laptop and table.

"Sherlock, that's not helpful," John said, pulling Seb closer.

It was past not helpful, but talking seemed to pull Seb into interacting more, even if it was an agitated reaction. Seb shifted, twisting, and sliding an arm slowly behind John's back, his fingers holding loosely onto John. "No, it was. I manipulated them a little at the onset." He ate a little bit of bagel.

He was willing to let Seb do whatever he wanted to get the ball rolling. "How did you do that?" John asked.

"I, uh." Seb's fingers twitched a little against his side. "They were going to start with more direct, uh. Torture and assault. Managed to put it off for a few days just by being a masochist."

"That's an intriguing idea," Sherlock commented. "Fascinating… hmm. That's one way to put off physical maiming. Interesting strategy."

John understood Seb though, he was unsurprised although he could imagine that was going to screw Seb right up psychologically speaking. "Does that bother you?"

"Uh, would've bothered me less if it had've worked as a long term strategy. Masochism unfortunately has its limits." It was a flip-toned comment, easy, but his body language was still tense. "And I need my hands."

"Ah, masochism still requires a consummation," Sherlock said, leaning back. "Bit of a problem when the pain stays as pain and can't be transformed."

John ignored him, trying to comprehend how Seb must have twisted his mind around to make it work. "But you made it work the best you could. Is there something that's worrying you about it? I mean whatever you did to stay alive is not a problem with me."

"That's a loaded statement." Seb closed his eyes, shifted and kept leaning against John. His breathing was steady, and the painkillers were still in full effect. He turned his head, pressed his mouth against John's neck, lingering for a long moment. "How long's it take for the STD panel to come back?"

"I'll chase them up for you," John said and frowned a little. "Did they... to you? I didn't see that on the medical report."

A medical report usually told a pretty good tale, and John imagined he could put most everything together that way. At least, after a fashion. Seb stayed quiet, head still bent in, face against John's neck. "Look under 'patient uncooperative with staff.'"

"They raped you?" John had to force himself not to get hysterical in reaction, though his heart beat faster with the need to do something. Seb being uncooperative, not so much of a surprise. "Is ...do you feel discomfort?"

"It's all right." And he was on painkillers, which wasn't a good measurement. His fingers on John's side stretched, rubbing idly. "It's not gunna kill me."

"’Not going to kill me’ is not a measure of discomfort," he said. "They were taking blood all the time from you, I'll get them to run tests." His arm was snug around Seb now and he was going to stay there as long as Seb needed him to. "I'll double check you later."

"Sure." The sofa was, apparently, a good idea. If he'd tried bed, he wasn't sure he would've gotten Seb to stay still that long. Under the guise of comfort, Seb would probably rest more. Then his cell phone buzzed where it sat on the coffee table, and Seb swore under his breath before he uncurled himself from around John. "Fuck."

"Look, you don't have to..." John said and Sherlock who was wandering past with one of the other bagels. 

"It's Holmes the elder," Sherlock said in a mocking tone and John tried not to show and expression of distaste.

"I still haven't forgiven him, the bastard," he muttered. "You want me to answer?"

Seb sat back on the sofa, still holding onto the phone as it buzzed again. "No, fuck it. Have to talk to him eventually. Colonel Moran." His jaw was set as he answered it, looking off to some point in the distance of the living room.

John could almost hear what Mycroft was saying especially as Sherlock was mouthing translation. "Blah, blah, blah, compromising position, blah blah, deniability, blah blah sure you understand..."

It was supported by the fact that Seb's face was steadily turning red, and that he stood up to pace over to the window, as if it actually gave any privacy. "Are you done? You can spare me your fucking platitudes."

"He really doesn't know when to let it drop," Sherlock said.

"Now I'm getting this from you, Sherlock? King of the inappropriate comment." John got up because he was seeing danger signs.

"I generally expect if he lunges at me, you'll stop him." That was a really helpful comment from Sherlock, as he stood there with a look on his face as if it was the most amusing thing he'd seen all day.

"No, I don't need to be *made to understand*. I will, fuck, fuck, fuck you! Where the hell do you get off lecturing me after what I just went through?!"

John moved forward. "Give it to me," he said and reached to take the phone. "Seb, give it to me… Come on."

He really didn't want to have to take it from Seb, nor did he want to scuffle with him, and Seb's reaction was to turn in towards the wall, jaw clenched tightly, deftly avoiding John. "No, I'm perfectly capable-- I." 

"He's just pulled rank," Sherlock supplied. 

"Yes sir. Yes. Fine." He hung up then, and almost immediately spiked the cell phone with a hard overhand throw at John's chair. If it still worked after that, it would be a miracle of thick cushions.

"Breathe, sit down, you've got fractures," John said fetching the phone. "Ignore him, you don't need to deal with him now."

"I work for that asshole!" He sat on the floor, which wasn't what John had meant, but. Long legs pulled up, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. "Fuck. Fuck!"

It took a moment to crouch down beside him, sliding an arm around his shoulders. "You can let go Seb," he reassured him. "You don't have to do anything…"

Sherlock loomed in closer, watching, John supposed. It made it all a little claustrophobic. His focus was more on Seb, angry, hurt, volatile, and leaning into him again the moment he was there. "He wants a full debrief tomorrow?"

"Oh, fuck off," Seb groaned, shaking his head. 

"He's not getting it," John said firmly. "You know as much about the people as Seb does. More maybe from Sheppard. Seb is not doing anything right now."

"I'm going to bed." Not that he was moving yet, but it was a statement as much from frustration as anything else. John could almost hear Seb's pulse from where he leaned into him. "Because I have to give him a full debrief tomorrow." 

"You don't have to," John said. "You really don't. He'll have to wait if you need the time."

"Yes, he does." Sherlock's observation was quiet, even as he crouched down to get on level with them. "The 'or else' is unspecified detention as a terrorist, isn't it? And it has been for years. He doesn't even need to mention it any longer. Or else... you lose everything."

Seb's shoulders shook a little. "I don't need you deducing anything right now."

"Perhaps not. But you're angry and irrational and scared." Sherlock was looking straight at John when he looked up. "And you're safe now."

"Goddammit!" John cursed. "Can't you talk to him Sherlock? Tell him to leave it a day or so?"

He wanted to let Mycroft know what he really thought of him right now, but that would probably end up with the knighthood being retracted. Frankly they could take it and stuff it up their asses if he weren’t sure it was the thing shielding Seb from politics.

“He won't change his mind," Sherlock offered unhelpfully. "Go to bed. I'll slide a couple of bagels and a laptop under your door."

"Do you want me to come with you?" John offered, not wanting to push things. Seb didn't need more people ordering him around right now.

"No." Seb shifted, started to stand up, and it was awkward for a moment, John helping him, and Sherlock lurking backwards, still watching them. 

There were probably a hundred different things Sherlock could've said that was worse than what he'd already said, and then he managed to top himself. "He wants to prove that a week of skilful torture didn't take the perk out of his criminal leanings."

"Jesus, Sherlock." John snapped at him and then steadied Seb. "Later then, I'll come in later." But he was coming in, he was going to be there.

Seb started forward, looking a briefly bemused before heading doggedly if unsteadily towards the stairs.

Sherlock put a hand on John's shoulder, just fleetingly, as if to push him forward. "You idiot. He doesn't want you going with him _tomorrow_."

“What?" John was confused. "Why the hell not? He needs someone backing him up. Mycroft hung him out to dry!"

"It's the nature of their deal." Sherlock glanced towards the stairs, and then wandered over to where he'd set his own snack to finish it. "He believes he can't show weakness, and the best way to move on is to embrace complete normality." He cocked an eyebrow at John, just briefly. "You've lived with Moran -- why does this surprise you?"

"Because I thought he would cut him some slack," John said. "Because he screwed him over." Left him there, used him as bait and then walked away.

Let Seb suffer the consequences, let other people find him, left John to pick up the pieces. "Do you think Sebastian would believe it if my brother called up and said it's all right, see you in three weeks, get better soon?" Sherlock asked archly. "Of course not. He'd be up in a window with a spotting scope looking for snipers and car bombs. Threatening the man to keep him in line is a very devious way of assuring him that he's still considered a useful asset."

John had to force himself to calm down. He remembered how Mycroft's cruelty had been the only thing to distract Seb during that critical week after he realized Moriarty was completely dead and gone. "For once, can't you two just be straight about all of this!?" John exclaimed with frustration, his own concern boiling over.

"I've been perfectly straight. It's all obvious." He took a small bite of bagel, and swallowed, "It was obvious yesterday that he'd been sexually assaulted, given his agitated reaction to your attempted medical care. It's obvious that my brother is giving the man an outside force to be angry at. It's obvious that you feel guilt, for some bizarre reason."

"Because I left him there all that time and didn't stop him from getting hurt!" John replied through gritted teeth. Obvious was it? Why the hell didn't he say before? Now he didn't know what to do... get close to Seb or give him space.

It was something he understood how to treat in a vague passing through his surgery way, but not. At home. "Yes, you should feel guilty, John, because you managed to get a Met detective inspector and an American gangster to work with you to rescue a British crime lord. Nothing extraordinary about that at all, completely bog standard, anyone would have done it. It's a shame I passed on the case about the missing prizewinning corgi to help you. You're an idiot." 

"Yeah, thanks for that Sherlock." He paced a little, unsettled himself. "So do I leave Seb alone or go in after him?"

"Was he sexually assaulted before or after he was on the sofa with you all but sucking your neck? Ah, before, well before, certainly there's no one lurking here now. You may wish to retract that statement about not holding anything he had to do to survive against him, that sounded rather wince-worthy in context, even to me. But don't leave him alone. Some people, their mind and silence is their worst enemy." 

And Sherlock was one of those people. "Fine, I'm just ordering the blood tests then I'm going in to be with him." John was embarrassed by how badly he was handling this. He needed to get a grip.

Sherlock was waving him off, resuming his chair and his laptop and whatever he'd been reading between spurts of eavesdropping. It left John to wander the flat aimlessly, to make that phone call at the hospital and have to route his way through a few layers to get to the appropriate doctor to have the tests run. They hadn't known, either, from the tone of the discussion, nor had they suspected. So that was just Sherlock, again, being Sherlock, and Seb being standoffish and defensive. Of all the times to start *hiding* things from John. He was used to not having to pry information, either out of Seb or out of Sherlock, because it was just there, free flow, constantly offered.

Except that Seb had grown distant before then, if he thought about it, since Sherlock had come back. He'd talked less about work, less about what he did every day, less funny stories about his not entirely on-the-ball compatriots in crime. Less in general, because Sherlock overwhelmed a room. 

He was disturbed himself, still trying to adjust to being on this side of the equation and he knew that Seb would be a bad patient, but that wasn't his fault. The least he could do was not allow him to fall prey to silence and his own thought. It was a little bit of time before he let himself quietly into their room, trying not to disturb Seb if he had managed to go to sleep. If he was, John could just lie there with him, do a bit on netbook on his next book. He had some revisions due after all.

The few times he'd done that at night, if Seb woke up he usually read over John's shoulder and caught a couple of things John had missed.

The bedroom was dark, but John knew how to circle around to his side of the bed by touch, a knee against the end of the mattress to guide him to his drawer to pull out sleeping clothes. He heard Seb shift in bed, fabric on fabric like he was sitting up or turning over. "Didn't think you were coming up."

"I was just sorting out blood tests," John said. "And I thought if you were tired it might give you a chance to go off without me jostling you accidentally."

And to give him a chance to get his shit together, which was a hell of a lot easier said than done.

Particularly since he didn't seem able to. "Not really tired, just tired of everything hurting. I think the broken rib's going to drive me crazy before it heals." John stood there in the dark, swapping jumper and jeans for a t-shirt that he'd probably just put on backwards or inside out, but given that Seb had turned the lights out, he wasn't going to turn them back on.

"What did Jim do to you that day in the pool?"

That was like a sucker punch to the head. "What? What's that got to do with anything?" He'd never even talked about it in therapy for god's sake, where the hell had that come from?

"I told you, I was having a vivid shouting match with Jim there for a bit. You don't have to say. I think I pretty much figured it out subconsciously years ago. Just..." He heard Seb shrug, or move. He wasn't sure, because he was standing there disoriented and then he felt Seb's hand on his hip, pulling gently at him. "I was patrolling the perimeter, and I knew he had you in the locker room. He liked to do things like that when he did get his hands dirty. It keeps people off balance. Some people go hysterical but ultimately useless, and the rest of us go numb, because what the hell else are you going to do?"

Numb was a good word for it. John tried to avoid calling up the memories, although he had to admit it was probably why he was not dealing particularly well with what had happened to Seb. "It was pretty much what you would expect," he said clearing his throat. Seb was owed the truth. "Moriarty was... Inventive while he was waiting." Played him like Sherlock played that damn violin, messing about with mental and physical abuse. "That's all there is to it." Maybe he hadn't hidden it well enough after all. He thought he'd kept the secret from Sherlock, but maybe he knew and just hadn't mentioned it.

"And when you got home afterwards..." And all he'd wanted to do, after surviving that, surviving Jim and the vest and the sniper targeting them was to go home. Seb shifted in bed, pulled at John to join him. "I missed you. Your texts were a lifeline."

"I'm sorry I didn't move earlier. Come after you sooner," he said softly. "I'm just... I keep thinking of how I should have done it differently, stopped what they did to you. I'm, I'm just sorry." It was easier somehow to talk in the darkness.

There wasn't any complicated facial expressions to work out, just Seb's hands against him over fabric while he got into bed. "I thought I was going to die there."

"I was afraid you were too," John admitted, surprised at how his voice cracked. "I'd never not come for you...never leave you there."

They settled together slowly in bed, Seb shifting in close to him again, forehead against John's temple, sliding a hand up beneath John's t-shirt to rest his palm against the bare skin of his stomach. His fingers were warm, and shaking very faintly. "I'm all right. I'm alive after all."

"Alive is fantastic but not the same as being all right," John turned his head to kiss him gently, not wanting to hurt the bruises there, and placed a hand to twine with the trembling fingers. "I know you need to be strong out there, but here, you don't have to hold it together for me if you don't want to. I'll do anything you need to help you, you did it for me."

Seb was responding better in the quiet, the privacy of their bedroom, than he had out in the living space, on the sofa. "I enjoyed helping you." He stretched his fingers, and then clutched loosely at John, the back of his other hand resting against John's stomach. The faint tremor didn't stop, but the rest of Seb's body language was relaxed, at ease as he shifted to slide his other arm around John's shoulders. "I'm shit at not-holding it together." 

"Yeah, crap at it," John smiled a little. "So, if you feel like talking we talk, if you don't we don't. I'm not going to push hard or anything, Ella will do that no doubt. And uh...you probably owe Sheppard a huge favour, considering. I used Sherlock as a bit of a blunt weapon on people to get to you as quickly as we did."

"Were we right that he's a gov't patsy?" Seb asked idly. We, yeah. "Sherlock uses himself as a blunt weapon. I suppose I owe him a thank you as well." He shifted, stretching out on his back with a grunt, still in close contact with John.

"In a manner of speaking, more associated with the military by the sounds of it, and definitely more accountable than Maybourne's group. He implied there had been trouble with him in the past. It piqued Sherlock's interest...he's probably hacking into top secrets right now," John murmured. "But he helped because, well, Sherlock said he responded to the leave no man behind plea." He hesitated. "Sherlock actually admitted to missing you."

Seb gave a quiet laugh, and turned his head a little, nose nudged against John's cheek. "Yeah, he missed having someone to fight with."

"Don't knock it, I don't think he ever spontaneously announced I was tolerable," John chuckled a bit. "And you like pissing him off too, I know you do. You just think I'm going to get angry so you back off. You don't have to you know."

"I have no idea where he fits." Or maybe, Seb had no idea where he personally fit. His hand was still unsteady, fingers shifting in John's grip, but he sounded alright. "Shit. I don't even know what day of the week it is."

"Tuesday," John relaxed a little himself, his thumb absently rubbing over skin. "Mm. Just try and relax."

"Trying." He shifted his shoulders, and John felt him tense momentarily before he settled. He could lay there like that, and just wait until Seb fell asleep. Nothing had been solved, and if anything, John felt a little worse, trying to not think about the pool. But he could lay there with Seb, settle him down, and sit with him while he slept.

"If you weren't black and blue I'd massage your back into submission," he said. "Can't do that until the rib is settled."

"Yeah. They said weeks for the rib." He heard Seb exhale slowly. No, John didn’t think he could hold back quite that long. "I don't plan to put my life on hold because of all this."

"Well, you're going to have to not do everything, for a while," John said. "Believe me I know how frustrating it is. Drove me crazy after I got shot."

"I know. I'll still take to it less well than you did. If I wasn't waiting for STD tests, we'd be doing a lot more than listening to me wince."

John was surprised at that. He'd not wanted anything to do with sex for some time after the encounter with Moriarty, not that it had been on offer or an option. "Really? I wouldn't have thought...well...you know."

Seb squeezed his hand lightly, and shifted in closer again, pressing his mouth against John's jaw. "I'd rather have my most recent experience be one I enjoyed than someone I'm going to kill if I ever see them again."

"I promise I'll do that for you," John said. "When the tests are back. Up until then, you might have to do with just touching?"

"I missed you. In general, so..." Kissing and quietly laying there felt so good, so relaxing. Because Seb was alive, and that was proof of it, that he could demand things John wouldn't think of doing.

"I'll let you think on that then," John replied allowing gentle kisses at least. For now they would just have to make do, one way or another.

* * *

He really was hanging on by a thread.

The worst part was that John knew it. That John had brought up breakfast in bed, that he was lingering ever near-by, which was right where Seb wanted him. It was good to be out of the hospital, to take care of things himself -- a good long hot shower, shave with his usual razor, squint at his hair in the mirror and shave down the usual spots carefully. He had bruises beneath, and a spot where either a jolt or, well, something. There was a burnt patch of skin he stuck a bandage over top and just figured he'd take care of it later. And John was there, just. Very carefully assisting in a way that didn't trigger him off like it had that once. Because he was worried, and why should he snap at John for being worried that Seb was headed out to meet Mycroft on his own after all that?

Even tying his necktie had been a bear to manage. "So, we're you up to today?"

"Lestrade wants to go over a few things," John said. "As he officially wasn't there for the incursion but only there for the mop up. I was a bit terse with my statements before. Thought I could meet you after seeing Mycroft?"

"Sounds good." Seb looked sideways at him. John always kept his eyes on the road when he drove, an excellent habit that Seb didn’t particularly share. "Where, uh, do you want to meet?"

"Where do you feel comfortable?" John said. "We could grab something to eat and then come straight back? Or... how long do you reckon he's going to be with you?"

"No idea." Seb straightened his collar, and rubbed his thumb idly over the edge of his jaw, elbow leaned against the car door. Everything felt numb and distant, and it was bothering him. Yeah, no matter how he tried, he still looked all fucked up around the eyes, never-mind the bruises. "Let's say two, three hours? Worse case, I go by Scotland Yard looking for you if I finish early."

"I could just… you know, wait outside for you," John said. "If you prefer." He looked a little uncomfortable.

And Seb understood why, just. "I'm fine. I'm completely drugged to the gills with all the painkillers I can tolerate, and I'll be fine." There were twinges of pain, but physical *pain* was easy. It was all the rest that wasn't. "If I have to sit on the front steps and smoke for a few minutes afterwards, I will."

"Text me, then, when you’re done and I'll either be there ready, or I'll come as soon as I can," John said. "Lestrade will wait if necessary."

"I suppose I should be grateful that you want to smother me." And that he wasn't letting Sebastian drive, but at least they'd had that argument already and he had to concede the point that he was lucky he was standing upright given the shape his knee was in. Still, felt good to be upright, even if there was pain, to be standing tall again. He leaned his forehead against John's shoulder. "Just go talk to Lestrade. I'll be fine." 

"It's my prerogative, to worry," John said. "But I know you can do this. So. I'm going, and try not to kill Mycroft." Still he lingered a bit as they sat outside.

"Can do." Seb had to be the one to pull away and open the car door before he started off to the club. It was an effort in walking as briskly as possible. Impression, it was all impression and he knew it. He was saying he was strong enough, capable enough to do this, even barely past a day in. He had to be. Had to do it to make sure he wasn't disposed of. 

The club itself was the usual haven of silence with the rustle of newspapers, and once again he was ushered in to see Mycroft without delay. "Take a seat Sebastian," Mycroft said. "Make yourself comfortable."

He smiled a shark's grin, sitting down as normally as he could muster. "You wanted me here, I'm here." He didn't want to be there, and he didn't know what was going to happen but he was there. "What can I do for you?" 

"Yes." Mycroft didn't look sympathetic, didn't look anything aside from the epitome of the Iceman. He steepled his fingers as if being thoughtful. "I need a more detailed debrief than the one given to see how compromised the network is."

That was funny, Seb didn't remember there being a debrief at all, so Mycroft must've gotten his information from somewhere -- Lestrade? Seb closed his eyes for a moment, recalling. "Well, we've got an American government mole in the network, but other than that, we're standing pretty firm." 

"And this was responsible for the incursion and your own abduction. What exactly were they trying to accomplish?" Mycroft said.

"They were attempting to gain control of my 'black ops team'." He kept smiling his shark smile, keeping himself focused as he blithely answered Mycroft. "Strangely, they weren't interested in the truth."

"Ah. Because they don't use that many solo agents for sizeable jobs," Mycroft commented. "This... Maybourne." He picked up a file from the side table. "The NID... is a very dubious operation. It concerns me what information they might have worked out."

"They managed to take out the closest thing I had to a lieutenant." He sat back in the chair, crossing his legs loosely at the ankle. It was damnably tempting to smoke. "So is that my next task -- work out what he's gotten into?"

"Mm." Mycroft looked at him. "The Americans are very intrusive. This is not the first time that factions have targeted our operations for political advantage. The question of course is why did they want that special ops team?"

"They wanted to leverage it. They were very specific about wanting to know how it was activated, how they were paid, supplied, given missions..." Everything. "We never got very far along that line of questioning."

"I can understand that." Mycroft mused, "They wanted the team for a target, that is logical. Something that could not be traced back to them in any way."

"Something with impressive capabilities." Seb rubbed his thumb at the edge of his jaw, and glanced around the room. "They asked all the wrong questions."

"Because in their arrogance they cannot accept the truth," Mycroft agreed. "That is the next mission, and logical under the guise of you going after them... Which would be entirely in character.

"Planned on doing it anyway." He shrugged his shoulders tightly. "I hope you're not looking for a short timeline."

"I suspect it will not be." Mycroft looked at him steadily. "Tell me about Sheppard."

"He works for the US Government. He's openly criminal, but quite law abiding when you watch him for a while. And I have. He's been particularly interested in Egyptian antiquities -- Coptic jars, jewellery."

"His reports led Maybourne to you," Mycroft frowned. "And yet he is still alive... a little atypical for you."

"I understand that I'm a frightening bastard, Holmes, but I haven't been out of the hospital for twenty four hours. Give a man time to work out what he wants to *do*." Because he was going to have to address Sheppard, whether he 'owed him one' or not. Maybe he could see to that while John was handling Lestrade. It was something to consider, but physically he was still at a loss.

"Time, Sebastian, is not a luxury we have." He was implacable. "Someone was after your network and with it all the advantages we have gained. Our intelligence has greatly improved as a result but that advantage drops if Maybourne can use his information."

His jaw clenched of its own accord, because yeah. Yeah, that was just how things went. Suck it up and carry on. Seb nodded shortly, uttered, "I'll take care of it." He felt on the edge of his sanity, sure, why the fuck not? Why not. No *real* reason not to do it. He'd just hunt Sheppard down, start working that.

Never mind that if he just.... stopped. If he just stopped, everything fell apart.

"Of course you will," Mycroft said mildly. "Now, I want a detailed list and description of any person you saw there or heard referred to in the duration of your incarceration."

Of course he did.

It took a while. He had to replay through what he'd said, what messages he'd explained, what he'd heard, pulling names out of events he wasn't going to reiterate for the man sitting across from him, five steps removed from it all because it was a still bleeding wound and the best he could manage was to skim the surface, pick out names and locations and things that had been compromised that he'd *already* taken care of. Seb sat still as he played through it all, until he stopped. "That's it."

"Sufficient to go on with," Mycroft acknowledged with a nod. "Now. The interrogation techniques. How did they attempt to break you?"

He shifted, struggling to not slouch in the chair, to not lose his tightly controlled posture. "How about you just nick my therapist's notes like usual when I'm done?"

Mycroft gave a thin smile. "But then I would have to wait until you went there and you're not ready for that. Yet. Classic brainwashing I believe? Nothing overtly inventive?"

He shook his head slightly. "Nah. Sleep deprivation, food and water deprivation, assault, regular irregular beatings, electric shock. The drugs were problematic, but I mostly kept them at bay pretty all right. Until the end."

"Ah, yes, a veritable cocktail of psychotropics.”

Seb inhaled slowly through his nose, tongue pressed up against his back left molar as he tried to come up with an answer to that. "No long term effects expected."

"Apparently not, though you might experience residual effects," Mycroft replied studying him closely.

Fuck the drugs, he felt like he was back to square one with his PTSD. Way back, before Jim back, when everything chafed and left him amped up. "It's not like someone really just walks away from torture, bright and shiny fine."

"Of course not, but your empire needs you functional, though you may need to recruit additional lieutenants. I would prefer a level of fail-safe in there." Mycroft answered.

He licked his bottom lip. "I appreciate you repeating things I'm already working on and considering."

"It bears repeating in light of this salutary lesson. I am concerned about your fitness for the job."

"Fuck you. You wouldn't let me move on this group when *I* picked up on it because you wanted to 'see it develop', you wanted to fucking engage with them, and you told me to make the counterfeiting a little more high profile than I liked because it would catch their eyes. Despite that it was against every gut instinct, I did what you fucking told me to do, and then I lost a man and spent a week being tortured. I'm concerned about *your* fitness for some of the orders you give me." He was snarling by the end, but it was restrained, low, and he leaned forward, watching Mycroft lean faintly back in the chair.

"For the very purpose of getting the whole group, not just the initial operatives," Mycroft answered. "There is no point to obtaining a minion who has no knowledge of use, no matter how skilled the extraction."

"Yeah? How's that working out for you, then? Because I can tell you how it's working out for me -- really fucking badly right now. There are ways to let things develop other than the way you did it, which was to purposefully leave me hanging out to dry. So you can take your platitudes about waiting to take out a whole group at once and fucking shove it. I nearly died there, and I'm sure you would've found a way to blame me and move on if I had. Appreciate the non-existent bail out, as well." He was trying to stay still and calm and comfortable, but it wasn't lasting, not really. He really wanted to lunge forward and just put his fist in the man's throat. "I lost a colleague. It isn't as if half competent criminals that I can trust drop out of the fucking sky."

Mycroft looked at him for a moment, letting the silence stretch out between them. "The rescue occurred in the best possible way. My operatives did not have the benefit of direct access to the upper echelons of your organisation in the way John did. There was an exit strategy being developed, but I admit it was not moving fast enough."

He clenched his jaw, and nodded. "So, I'll take care of the fallout from this *my* way. No loose ends."

"In view of recent events, I will authorise that," Mycroft agreed. "We can explain away Lestrade's interest through John and Sherlock's involvement."

"That's a separate issue." Seb ran a hand back through his hair, watching Mycroft's perfectly icy expression. "Your brother causes me a lot of reputation problems."

"Really?" Mycroft looked at him. "Once declared fraud should be enough muck to stick. And I am his brother -- I know he has a loose approach to rules. I'm still trying to work out how Miss Adler was rescued by him. He can be annoyingly obstinate. I rather think the two of you are alike in some ways."

He gave Mycroft as bland a look as he could manage, shaking his head. "Yeah, well, it's fucking bizarre. It's like living with Jim."

"I would venture to say that there a slight degree of difference in that Sherlock does have a rudimentary moral system," Mycroft said.

That was a surprisingly accurate way to phrase it. "If that's all, I've got to track down Sheppard."

"Indeed," Mycroft said. "Speak to your sister as well. I will only allow her back once she has... calmed down. The ability to make a dramatic scene appears to be sizeable in your family."

He did almost laugh then, because shit, yeah. He hadn't called her. Hadn't done much more than lie in bed with John and try to not trigger off. "Yeah, holidays are hell. Right." He stood up as carefully as possible, nodding. His knee seized a little, and pain snapped through his back. Just gritted his teeth to bear through it.

He headed outside, wondering whether he should speak to Becks, then call John. John had probably given her the bare facts of the matter, knowing him, but it wasn't a substitute for the real thing.

No sign of John, or his car, so he wandered down to hail a taxi to Scotland Yard, fishing his phone out to call Becks. It rang twice.

She must have been practically sitting on the damn thing to answer that quickly. "Seb? Tell me that's you. Are you okay? Are you at home?"

"I'm at the Diogenes. Just met with Mycroft. I'm all right." Taxi drove past him, nice. "Hi."

"You're all right? Is that it?" Becks sounded incredulous. "John... John told me, I've never heard him sound like that."

He finally managed to get a taxi to stop, and slid in, telling the driver, "New Scotland Yard," before sitting back with care. He just needed to keep breathing, that was all. Fuck the pain and he'd get through it. "Yeah. I, uh." Because his sister read him like a book. "I'm pretty badly hurt, but it'll heal. No missing limbs. Fingers and toes all attached, still have two eyes. That counts as all right."

"John said it was bad..." She sounded almost scared of what he might say. "And to give you time until you were ready for people to come over." It ended on a questioning lilt as if she was scared of pressuring him.

"I don't really have the option of waiting that long. There's shit to do for work." He managed a quiet laugh, looking around sharply, staying alert. It was a little paranoid to think some random taxi driver would do something to him, but fuck. He'd been gotten the drop on enough for a couple of years. Maybe a decade. "I, uh. Actually had a bit of a break."

"A bit of a break?" Becks repeated, sounding a bit wary, and understandably so.

"I was arguing with Jim towards the end of it. There were some pretty spectacular drugs involved." He scanned the road again, feeling trapped and restless. 

"Oh." Becks seemed at a loss for words. "I'm sorry Seb, I was furious with Mycroft. I don't bloody care if he fires me."

"I do. You love your job." He shrugged, starting to relax as he saw familiar landmarks. "I think you occasionally forget what I do for a living."

"Not forget just..." She gave a heavy sigh. "I don't want to lose you Seb, and for the first time I've seen you happy. That’s amazing, and then this, because Mycroft thinks he’s infallible!"

"Yep. Nature of the job. I had to have a notch cut out of my arm once when Jim randomly changed plans once. I had this festering machete wound, and I had to hide in the jungle because he'd made a huge fucking scene and the pro-forma government was looking to execute me." The taxi driver looked at him in the rear-view and his flashed his eyebrows at the man, daring him to say shit. "So, it. I'll be okay." 

"I have read your file," Becks said. "Although I am sure things are missing. Definitely. You're not allowed to get hurt any more. I forbid it."

"Very realistic expectations." He laughed, closed his eyes for just a minute. "So, how was your week? Other than nearly getting yourself fired."

"I nearly got myself fired for screaming at Mycroft to pull his finger out," Becks said. "Then I was suspended. That's pretty much it. John has been sending me updates but I think he glosses over some things."

"Yeah, there's just some things you don't need to know." The edge of his mouth quirked a little, and he opened his eyes. They were past the turn to Scotland Yard now, and that was a problem. He shifted, reaching into his pocket in an idle, fishing for money way. It was a serrated folding tactical blade, that he kept low, leaning forward and still on the phone with Becks. "Hey, buddy, I think you drove past my stop."

"What's going on?" He could hear Becks saying that in his ear. "Oh my god, again? Where are you? I need to text John... Jeremy, where's your mob- ah.. give me a clue and they'll be there immediately."

The taxi driver seemed to be ignoring his query.

"Hey, I wanted to go to Scotland Yard..." He pulled the window between them open, leaning forward enough to process that he knew that face, yes, he knew that face, Maybourne, so he moved fast, getting his arm through the window, knife blade flipped out quickly and pressed hard against the man's throat. The phone fell to the floor. "Or I slit your throat."

Becks was freaking out on the phone, he could hear her, but Maybourne slowed the car, bringing it to halt... and then tried to fire a gun at Seb, in the close confines of the cab.

He ducked his head down at the same time he jerked the knife inwards, hearing blown from the shattering noise of the shot in such close quarters. It was all quick motion then, the car rolling forward a little while Seb flipped the knife shut and snatched his phone up, turning it off quickly, before sliding fast out the passenger side. 

Seb yanked the driver's side door open, checked Maybourne's pockets -- left his ID on his chest, no cell phone, nothing useful. He started from the scene as fast as he could manage, heading for an alley. His suit jacket was black, but his hand and arm was soaked in blood.

His phone had cut off Becks in the struggle and now it started ringing, John's ID flashing up. Becks had obviously got a hold of him at Scotland Yard and he was probably tearing out of there. He wasn't far away.

Fuck. Fuck. He managed to get a little further, and crouched down behind a big industrial bin, back pressed against the wall as he caught his breath, struggling to answer. "Hey, darling."

"Seb? Where the fuck are you?" John sounded just on the edge of panic. "Are you okay? Becks said someone was jumping you again."

"If you're going past the yard, you're going to see a slightly crashed taxi, with arterial spray inside the wind shield." He ducked his head down, the floating fractured rib making his chest seize. His ears were still ringing from the close gunshot, and he wasn't entirely sure it hadn't skimmed the side of his head. His neck felt wet. "Fuck. So, Maybourne's taken care of."

"Jesus, Jesus Seb," John exhaled audibly. "Give me your location and I swear, you are going home and I'm goddamn chaining you to the bed if that's what it takes to keep you safe!"

He laughed, low and quiet and maybe a little hysterical as he crouched there, trying to hold still. "Is that a promise? I'm uh." He turned his head, looking past the bin. "Dunno. Maybe three blocks up from the accident, between two restaurant bins. You can probably follow the blood drops."

"Stay there." He said and he could hear muttered swearing. "I can't be far away. Restaurant, restaurants..."

"Can't tell if he shot me. My ears are ringing." Still, if he was talking, that was good. He closed his eyes, still holding tight to the phone. Fuck. He was never getting in another taxi again, he should've suspected them more, given how easy it had been for Jim to pull off the same trick.

"Got you." There was the sound of a car, and a car door, and the sound of someone jogging towards him. "Seb? Shit, he's clipped you somewhere..."

He thumbed his phone off, using the wall to push himself upright. John. Sometimes, it was just bizarre how much seeing John made him relax, made his shoulders ease. Jim had done that, too, in a way, because it meant familiarity and knowing his boundaries and that things were going to be all right in his head. "Home, before the cops start looking for me?"

"It's not like Lestrade isn’t going to figure it out," John said holding him up. "Home, now..."

"Well, he can guess but I'd rather not leave him really hard evidence." He started forward with John, and they made their way to the car fast. The fact that John was learning the tricks of the trade was obvious when he got Seb to lay down in the back seat, out of sight with his legs bent carefully. It felt good to lay out, and just close his eyes, listen to John starting up the engine, pulling away at a careful speed. "The funny thing is, I passed on the obviously stupid choice of shit to do."

"You were meant to text me," John reminded. "And wait... That was too damn close Seb. I'm going to have to butterfly that graze."

"Mmhm. Put it on the list." He pressed his hand against the back of the driver's seat, because that was as close as he was going to get to touching John just then, and he was tired. He was tired and everything hurt, and that wasn't an excuse for not being out there and taking on everything that was waiting for him. It wasn't. It was a fucking horrible excuse. A little torture had no reason to get him down, he was better than that. 

A little torture couldn't touch him.

* * *


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All of the things John was trying to not think about were just piling up. How the hell had he ended up with a partner who carried on like he was invincible, and when had he started to buy into Seb's carefully constructed public persona?

Getting Seb back to Baker Street was easy enough, but John was trying to contemplate what they should do next. Should they just say to Lestrade that Maybourne was dealt with. Should they conceal it? He'd have to ask Sherlock and hope for the best, because he was not sure what the best things would be when his main attention was on keeping Seb safe and sound. It might be the wrong move politically speaking. But hearing Maybourne had tried again, even if Seb had proven he was still strong enough to defend himself, had made John’s blood run cold.

He parked the car in the usual out of the way place that was a bit of a walk that Seb favoured, because it would draw somewhat less attention. They walked with him on the side of Seb's fresh injury, hiding it as best as he could until they ducked into 221b, and started up the stairs. "I almost can't believe this shit."

"I know I can't," John replied helping as much as possible until they got inside. "Let me get my kit. That's it..." He looked around to see if Sherlock was lurking anywhere. "Sherlock?"

"Hmn? Ah, so it's not safe to let you out of the house." He leaned out of the kitchen, goggles on -- it was enough to make John veer away from the kitchen, just in case it was something no one wanted in their lungs. "They made a secondary attempt? Was it Maybourne? No, of course it was, no one else would be desperate enough to try as a single actor, and given the blood on your sleeve, which isn't yours..."

Seb started to shrug out of his suit jacket, and his shirt as well, a struggling, absent motion. "Yeah, do me a favour and put these in a metal bin. I'll burn them soon."

John headed back, swabs and steri-strips in hand, and the antiseptic. "Hold still Seb. Sherlock, I'm not sure how to handle this. Lestrade is bound to connect Seb and Maybourne... I ducked out on them for a start when I got a text from Becks."

"Call Lestrade back. Lie. Tell him I had a panic attack while I was on the phone with Becks." Seb leaned back in the wooden chair he'd settled into, chest rising and falling with slow, controlled deep breaths. "Give him plausible deniability. He can take it or not." 

"Hmn, and it's no doubt too late for a cleanup team to cover for you. Are you in the system? Your DNA."

Seb shook his head faintly.

"Convenient." He knew all too well, you were only as accurate as the exemplar used. He used antiseptic and wiped down the blood. "So, texting I left because Seb was having a panic attack and...what? Maybourne could have been targeted by someone doing clean up?"

"I had people looking." Seb inhaled a little sharply at the wipe of antiseptic over skin. It was just a graze. *Only* a graze, only a gnarled snag of skin going diagonally up from his forehead towards the part in Seb’s hairline. It was going to scar, John was sure of that, but he was mostly trying to not think that if Seb hadn't, what, jerked his head backwards his brains would have been splattered over the inside of the taxi.

It made him feel sick just to contemplate it and he had to swallow down bile as he focussed. Steri-strips over the deep part of a graze and it was done.

"Right. Done. Let's get the rest of you changed just in case his first stop is here."

"Conveniently, I was just going to start a test with bleach." Sherlock's voice tilted towards delighted, and he scooped up the suit coat and shirt while Seb started to stand up.

"Hey, wait." He fished a folded pocket knife out of his pocket absently. John could already see that it was thick with gore, blood. And if it was in Seb's pocket, then the pants were an evidence tainted mess, too. "Throw that in, too. Please."

"Seb, just strip and give him all your clothes." It wasn't like he didn't have a lot of them in their wardrobe. "You might as well. There could be trace everywhere and forensics at the Yard are not completely incompetent, no matter what Sherlock says."

He watched Seb's jaw clench for a moment, the muscle jumping, and then Seb gave a slow nod, pulling his wallet, pack of cigarettes and lighter out of his pocket with the hand that wasn't a bloody mess. John took it, while Seb toed out of his shoes, sliding his trousers down and stepping out of them. There was a bloody patch at the hip of his boxer briefs, staining the utilitarian grey. Clothes had done a wonder for making Seb seem more together than he was; standing there naked with all of those bruises, the half-healing scrapes and cuts and burns, John could see the fine shakiness to him, that one leg was shaking badly as he crossed his arms over his chest.

"Get him in the shower and then bring them down, John," Sherlock ordered, picking the trousers up and waving them both off quick and dismissive.

"C’mon love," John murmured, “let’s get upstairs. Let me scrub you off." And then get him back into bed where he belonged for a bit.

For a long bit. He shouldn't have even gone out, even if he, apparently, could still handle himself in a fight. It obviously wasn't good. If Seb had been one hundred percent, John wasn't sure he would even have gotten into the taxi in the first place. 

The walk upstairs was steady, with Seb's stubborn edge showing a little. At least until they were in the upstairs bathroom, and John closed the door behind him. "My ears are still ringing."

"They will for a while." John reaching in to turn on the shower, and hastily stripped off himself. With the shower door open, his jumper was going to get damp on the floor, but it didn’t seem to matter. "I'm going to make sure you are all in one piece still."

"You're going to have to re-do all of these bandages." Most of them, but that was fine. It was just time consuming, not world ruining. Seb stripped out of his blood sodden boxers, and stepped under the shower spray. Every breath was still deep and careful, which meant either the rib was bothering him or the panic attack cover story wasn't quite a story. 

John wrapped his arms around Seb, stepping into the water with him. "I've got you.." he murmured. "I was scared shitless Seb,"

The last week had been hellish, and then to only just get him back and to get that message from Becks... Seb leaned into him, looping an arm around John's back. "I don't know if I can do this shit anymore."

"You can if you want to, but..." John started carefully soaping him even as he hugged him. "You know you could join us, on the solving side of things."

It was probably insane to suggest, but Seb just shook his head a little, pressing kisses against John's temple, exhaling shakily. "I don't know. It's..." 

"I know," John replied. It was what Seb did, how he did it. He would make the decision. "I'm just making sure you know you have options."

More headshaking. He wasn't sure how much cleaning he was actually managing, but the water was hot and not distracting as Seb started to kiss him, leaned in and backed up him against the wall, almost into the shower knob. "Everything feels knotted up."

"We'll unknot it," he said, feeling Seb's desperation. "I love you."

But love didn't fix a lot of things. It wasn't perfect or even enough sometimes. Most times. Seb ran an unsteady hand down John's spine, just lingering. "I know. You came for me. You didn't have to. You put yourself at risk..."

"I told you, I'll always come after you." John reassured, although privately he wasn't sure if that was particularly reassuring. Dammit, he wished he had the blood tests back. If they had to use a condom they would but... Well, and then there was the worst case scenario, that the tests wouldn't come back all right, that there might be something not really easily treatable, that they'd have to use condoms from then on. They were both up on their Hep vaccinations, along with every feasible tropical disease, which had to help. But Seb was always a bloody mess, literally, always injured, even if it was just a bloody nose because he used his body as a weapon, didn't hesitate before he head-butted someone. He was a walking time bomb if he ever came down with something blood borne.

All of the things John was trying to not think about were just piling up. How the hell had he ended up with a partner who carried on like he was invincible, and when had he started to buy into Seb's carefully constructed public persona? Seb's fingers lingered at the edge of John's mouth, sliding back over his cheek while he kissed him, tasting his mouth slow and hungry, that desperate feeling spiking again. John felt Seb's thigh shaking where it pressed against his own.

"It's okay," he murmured, mentally mapping where the nearest condom was just in case. Even though it felt like complete madness, because Seb had been tortured and assaulted and was doing what Seb wanted then good for him or bad for him? John was a shitty judge of that. It was just that Seb wasn't invincible, never had been and he was the one that got to see behind the mask. He had to remember that. He slid his hand over that thigh, pulling Seb closer under the water spray that was sluicing them clean.

Seb gave a needy noise from the back of his throat, his hand knotting into a fist against the small of John's back, where it was caught between John and the wall. "I can't keep doing this, I can't, I. Fuck." He pressed a shaking kiss against the side of John's mouth. Catching, catching was never good. "Fuck. I think I scared myself."

“How?" John asked, barely audible over the running water. He wanted Seb to let go, to try and stop being wound so tight he was shaking. He wasn't sure how to do that, but Seb was a physical man, his solutions were obviously physical.

"Don't know. I." Caught, catching, he hadn't heard Seb sound like that in ages, unable to press forward with whatever he was trying to say. He exhaled, maybe to try again. Instead, he went stiff and turned around sharply when the door opened, Sherlock sticking his head in and then striding forward to gather up Seb's bloody boxers from the floor.

"Patrol car just pulled up outside, you might want to stay here for a while."

"It's okay." He kept stroking a hand along Seb's back, even as Sherlock casually sprayed bleach where the boxers had been, and then disinfectant. "Sherlock will take care of it." Probably in some offensive way, but Sherlock always had a reason for the strange and bizarre. He also casually draped the discarded soiled bandages in the bin and John realised he was doing it as an explanation for any small bits he'd dropped because those dressings and bandages had been under clothes and if taken would have only Seb's blood on them. He went out and came back in tossing a set of worn clothes from their bedroom on the side of the bath including pants and socks and John was in awe of how he could just think of things like that.

Perfect cover for them. He was gone as quick as he'd come in, but Seb still pulled away as much as John would allow with the water still running. Sherlock's presence took some of the immediate heat down, but Seb was still nearly shaking as he stood there, and it wouldn't take much to start it up again.

Lestrade was likely to come and have a poke around regardless, so John figured best that they were found being normal. "Come on, let's put some clean dressings on you," he said. "And then we'll go... to bed."

He drew Seb out of the shower, sticking a bit of the bleach down the plughole just in case, and going to the medicine cabinet, and grabbing a small towel to pat injured places dry. "If Greg bursts in, it won't do him harm to see injuries," he murmured.

"I'm really tired of people seeing me naked," Seb complained, wrapping a towel around his hips. "Fuck."

"As long as that doesn't include me," John replied, affixing his own towel and getting to work on drying and re-bandaging Seb. "Sit on the side of the bath a moment." He could field dress a wound pretty damn quickly and if he was any judge, Lestrade would be talking to Sherlock any moment.

Seb sat slowly, legs stretched out in front of him, while John leaned in. "Just a few minutes of quiet..."

"Soon," John promised as he wrapped and bandaged at speed. It made it look like he had been at it a long time "These are healing well. Bruises look impressive."

Seb gave a laugh, leaning forward enough to press his forehead against the top of John's head, close and comfortable. "I'm glad I bruise impressively."

"Takes talent," John said and smiled. "Mind my steri-strips. Hopefully they didn't wash away," he said patting him dry gently. He could hear someone coming closer and raised his eyebrows at Seb a little.

He wasn't even sure Seb caught the gesture, not with the way he just shook his head and leaned back into John, draping an arm over his shoulder, fingers against his back again. "Jesus. I'm starting to give that whole better living through chemistry thing another thought. I should be able to..."

Right on cue, there was Lestrade knocking. "Mind if I come in? You sort of shot out of the yard without much warning, John..."

"Uh, hold on, we're..." John fumbled for a robe, and then tossed one to Seb to supplement the towel before he opened the door. "Sorry, I was just... redressing some of Seb's injuries. He was in a bit of a state after Mycroft grilled him."

"Can you just fuck off?" Seb snarled, and he sounded edgy, unsteady as he shrugged the robe on. "Seriously, what the hell are you doing here?"

"Uh, he's... Not at his best," John said in a low voice he knew Seb would hear. He had to admit it looked totally convincing, because Seb literally was on the edge of falling to pieces.

Lestrade wasn't a complete idiot, though, and looked at John, making a gesture to his own forehead as he stared at the deep graze on Sebastian's. "And if he's not at his best, he shouldn't be out roaming the streets. It's that simple, John. You know, we found a taxi crashed just up from the Yard. Driver's dead."

"Like I give a fuck?" Seb's eyebrows went up, angry and confused all at the same time as he started to stand up from the edge of the tub.

"Really?" John looked at him with the sort of concern he would give to the news of a random death. "No sign of it when I went to pick up Seb. He wasn't meant to be out roaming. Mycroft drove him into a panic attack and he was ...well, disorientated. Managed to catch his head on a skip, as if he didn't have enough cuts and bruises." He focused on Seb, because he was the concern, not some nameless individual who was apparently dead.

Seb's expression pulled towards miserable and embarrassed as he lurked up to stand beside John. "Do you have to fucking say it like that? I didn't, fuck, I didn't have a panic attack, I just. Fuck, I just had to get out of there."

Lestrade's eyebrows were making motions all on their own, saying with expressions 'Sure, whatever you say, buddy', as Seb started to stick on words. "Right, I'm not here to start a domestic for you both. Just, it's Maybourne. Someone slit his neck wide open."

"Maybourne?" John sounded incredulous. "Holy shit, Seb, did you uh... spread the word or something?" Lestrade knew about Seb doing the equivalent of spy work for Mycroft, probably thinking it was more MI5 stuff than anything.

More of the puzzled, incredulous look, and Seb glanced at Lestrade, shaking his head as he rolled his eyes. "Do we have to have this conversation in front of the DI? Yeah, his file got around, and I don't care who it got around to. I didn't pay anyone, but if someone wants to curry a favour with me, two and two still gets you four."

"Four to twelve in jail," Lestrade added, crossing his arms over his chest as he looked at them -- Seb looking pale and bandaged, and the both of them still wet. "I know you did it, and you know I've got nothing tangible on you. But I'm watching you. You can't just have people killed in front of Scotland Yard, and throw their ID on their chest like a marked kill. There are *limits*." Lestrade's hand moved out, to touch or point or push Seb a little, John wasn't even sure what. It didn't matter, because Seb lunged at Lestrade.

"Whoa, whoa, Greg... This is a really bad idea," John said wrestling Seb back. "I'm not joking about this. You want to go talk to someone about this. Talk to Mycroft. Talk to him about exactly what Maybourne was plotting...and how many people *he* had hunting him, okay?"

The worst part of it was that Seb really did fight him for a moment, making a wild swing at Lestrade that the man narrowly missed before pulling away from John in a show of his better sense to slam the palm of his hand angrily against the wall. "Fuck!"

At least Lestrade seemed to have the better sense to pull away then. "Fine. Fine, but I've got a gut instinct on this..." And he started back out into the hallway, towards the stairs. 

"You're lucky I didn't do worse!" Seb shouted after him.

"Easy, easy... Settle down." He wasn't going to sedate him that was for sure. Seb would never trust him again. But he held onto him, not letting go.

He wouldn't break that trust, even as strong as it was. Seb stayed tense, and then he just shook his head, half-heartedly holding onto John. There wasn't anything to be said, after Seb just gave a low whining noise. "Goddammit."

"I'm sorry. I'm really sorry.." It made him feel a bit strange being on the opposite side to Lestrade even for a moment. He wanted him to know that they were the good guys.

Well, or at least that he was one himself. Seb mumbled something against the skin of John's neck, then added, "If one more person comes in, I'm killing them." 

"Maybe it's time to get you back into bed," John pointed out. "You weren't ready for this, you need some more downtime."

"Maybe." It was something Seb was notoriously bad at, but he probably had days of work he could do on his laptop. Except he was trying to prove he was still physically able, except that Mycroft had goaded him into... whatever, John didn't know. He just knew that Seb had managed to thwart another attempt, had killed Maybourne, and he'd nearly taken a bullet to the head. It was no wonder he was shaking and wound so damn tight. "Are you running off to take care of something else?"

"No. I'm staying here, I've got plenty to do here. I've got a chapter deadline so I can just be doing that here." He didn't want Seb to feel like he was completely inconveniencing him, but on the other hand wanted him to know he was staying for him. "Or I can just… be here," he offered awkwardly.

It felt like an underwhelming offer of support in John's ears, but Seb's mouth quirked a little, and he looked almost fond as they took a step out of the bathroom and into the hallway. "I'd rather see if I can distract you from your deadline." It was Seb reaching too hard, too fast for normality, like nothing had just happened at all. John could almost see how the rest of the afternoon and evening was going to go -- Seb teasing him while he wrote, constant contact until the shaking stopped -- but anything at all was better than the rollercoaster of Seb trying to get a hold of himself while having to deal with other people. 

Hell, Lestrade was still in the flat, downstairs arguing with Sherlock from the sound of his voice.

Well he could stay there, John's priority was Seb right now. He'd catch up with whatever Sherlock had spun out of nothing with Lestrade later, and deal with the fall out then. Now it was best to let Seb do what he was comfortable with and get him grounded again.

He'd come too close to losing Seb, too many times, to do anything else.

* * *

Obviously, having emotional attachments to anyone was as much of a weakness as having emotions that ran wild in the first place, regardless of attachment. Attachment was sentiment, and sentiment was a fatal flaw, a weak spot.

Which was why he was generally dismayed that he found himself talking to nothing at all when he'd thought John would have been there already. Surely they couldn't hide away upstairs two days in a row?

John had said something about Moran needing the contact and reassurance. He appeared only for drink and food, and then scurried away again. His discussion with Lestrade was illuminating, and he was making himself useful on that front as well. They both knew what the situation was, but Lestrade had wrongly interpreted the nuances... as usual. Sherlock had clarified that at least, while making it blindingly obvious that they had no way to actually connect Moran to the crime, and that in fact he was straying into political territory, that he despised.

"Sherlock, where've the tea bags gone?" John said having appeared magically while he had been musing.

And just as surely, he was going to disappear upstairs with tea, off to. Whatever they were doing, though he could make a few guesses -- none of the evidence was as lewd as he was accustomed, and from the way John was absently working his wrist, he was willing to bet that the two of them had been ensconced up there working on their respective reports. There was the suck mark on John's neck, too, but for two days that was rather unremarkable, given Moran's usual sexual proclivities.

"I used them in a study of staining on bleached fabric and the chemical reactions." He tilted his head back, watching John's expression. "This isn't healthy."

"What isn't?" John said absently searching around. "For god's sake Sherlock couldn't you leave me one tea bag?"

What had started as a cover had become an actual study, and it was interesting. He had been taking samples of the probability of any DNA survival in areas of clothing after bleach. Always useful information.

"No. You can go out and get more tea. Hiding, John, is not conducive to recovery for either of you, regardless of how much of an affectionate lapdog Moran is." He stood up, just to head to the kitchen to see how his results were coming from where they were carefully organised on the table.

"What do you mean for the both of us? I'm fine." Coffee was obviously being substituted.

Honestly, for a doctor and a man who seemed so very in tune with human minds, he had a glaring blind spot when it came to his own affairs, but such was human nature. "You're exhibiting signs of secondary trauma. Your partner was grievously injured, the sexual assault is playing on your mind, and then he narrowly missed joining Jim Moriarty as a member of the skulls with holes in them club. Nothing you've done so far has helped soothe the very real fears that Sebastian lives a very dangerous lifestyle and could be next seen dead -- and you're managing your own reaction to the trauma while handling a partner who normally has low emotional processing capability." He gave his samples a cursory visual inspection.

"Yes, well thank you for that stunningly obvious encapsulating of events," John replied. He was automatically making a cup of coffee for all of them so it appeared. "But right now Seb needs a bit of a breather so he can get his head around things."

Which, given the dark circles around John's eyes wasn't working well at all. Still, he at least let John answer his next question of, "And how is he?"

"He's some better. It shook him up, badly." He put the coffee in front of Sherlock and leaned against the table. "Possibly because he's not cared whether he gets killed before."

"And now, now he cares. That's your fault." He reached for the coffee cup, taking a slow sip. 

"Yeah, I guess it is," he said and he had that look of having shouldered responsibility. "People tend to do that."

"Care because of you? You realise he'd be long dead without you. My brother never would have approached him as a potential asset if he hadn't expected your tempering effect." Sherlock glanced at the swatch he'd cut from the bloody pants pocket.

"Obviously that is my function in life," he said dryly. He gave Sherlock a look. "So, as I know that you're dying to tell me. What should I be doing?"

He snorted, breathing in the smell of the coffee, and watching John’s unerringly uncomfortable facial expression "You know the best courses of action, John. They simply make you uncomfortable to consider. And you are not Moran. What is good for him could be honestly bad for you, which you've dealt with before. The question is, why are you asking me now?"

"No, I don't know the best courses... What are you talking about?" John replied pausing with his coffee.

"If the STD panel comes back with a positive result, what will you do, John?" Different direction, surely John wasn't that daft. It was his nearness to the problem that was blinding him to the obvious. 

"Use condoms," John said immediately as if it was that simple. "You think that's going to stop me?"

"Yes, because it obviously has," Sherlock noted wryly. "He doesn't require solitude to get himself back to functioning -- he requires a sense of control. However that's manifested, and while I endeavour to only pay so much attention to your sex life, John, it's quite obvious."

"A sense of control?" John was looking at him blankly. "I'm trying to give him that, let him decide when he is ready to do things. Giving him a calm space to decide."

Ah, John. So right in some ways, so very wrong in others.

"He's already said and decided, though, hasn't he? And now he's waiting for you. Or whatever restriction you'd placed in his decision -- the STD panel results? Still, watching Sebastian is interesting, it's Irene in reverse. He started by using his masochistic tendencies to get through torture, except it never crossed from pain -- then there was the assault. Did he attempt the same technique there? Regardless, it's a broken leg that's healing crooked for him. He'd much rather have it broken by someone he knows will set it right, whether that's a good idea or not. Now he's fixating on what it would feel like if someone rebroke it and set it. That's the important part at the end of it, isn't it? The aftercare." He'd done reading after Irene, to better understand it from a less socially biased perspective. It still, unfortunately, hadn't given him a better grasp of her individual qualities, but it had given him a much better understanding of her background setting.

He could see John mulling it over in his head, not altogether comfortable with the idea, but obviously recognising the reality of what he was saying and what Sebastian had obviously been hinting at towards him. "You're saying I should break him to fix him?" he said slowly.

"Yes, John. That's exactly what I'm saying. Everything else that occurred in terms of broken limbs has been heretofore missing that integral component of sentiment and trust." He took a sip of his coffee. "When you go out to buy condoms, bring back some tea."

"After the coffee... and a talk with Seb." But he seemed more resolute somehow, more directed. That was a good outcome. The sooner they all returned to life, such as they were accustomed to, the better.

Working cases without John there was oddly lacking something, and the cases he'd received were simple and*boring*. Cheating husbands and runaway children and thefts. Boring boring boring. "I'll leave the 'talking' to you."

"I'm surprised you don't want to weigh in with suggestions," John said as he pushed himself standing, to head back up the stairs.

"Unlike your string of nameless girlfriends, who you can't even remember, I can't seem to shake this one. There's no sense in intervening." Sherlock waved John off, focused on the swatches in front of him. "Particularly if I put all of this work in for you and see no benefit."

"All of this work?" John paused as he got to the door. "What would that be?" he said with a faint smile.

"Clearly you were going to allow Moran to carry on as he has, and act confused when he failed to improve. You certainly don't want me intervening to snap him back to his senses, to snap *you* back to yours."

John rolled his eyes a little. "Oh right. You take the credit then...I'll just be upstairs doing something about it."

"Finally!" It was a relief when John left the kitchen, taking his coffee with him. It left Sherlock to consider his samples, to begin photographing them, and to not consider what extents he'd go to if it helped John.

* * *

Everything was sort of shoved three steps the wrong way, and it had been since Maybourne had nearly shot him in the head. The number of injuries he'd managed to inflict on Seb had been immense and ambitious. And effective.

Four days since he'd been discharged from the hospital, two since Maybourne again, since he'd argued with Lestrade, since he'd actually left the second floor of the flat. It had been good to sleep with John there, and then to start catching up on his work shit, but if he spent any more time laying about, he was going to go out of his head.

Things just whirled around aimlessly in his head, him constantly berating himself for getting caught, for nearly getting shot because that was just sloppy and he couldn't stop it. Didn't know how to stop it. It had been the same with his experiences in the military, he just hadn't been able to short circuit the cycle of guilt until it had consumed him and he had lost control, lashing out at everyone. He was worried that he might end up in the same position with John, and this time it would be someone he cared about that would be hurt.

"Slightly cold coffee," John said as he re-entered the room. "Sorry. Sherlock was lecturing me."

"Oh, nice." He looked up, leaning back in the chair he'd sprawled himself into. Mostly, he was focused on not reacting, on not thinking, on not doing much more than putting one foot in front of the other, metaphorically, so he didn't accidentally do something daft.

“He might have had a point," John said handing the coffee over. "He said I wasn't giving you what you really needed."

He reached for the cup, and slouched back into his space, mouth a tight line. "You know, I'm sleeping with you, not him. I suppose asking him to keep his nose out of it isn't going to work, eh?" John was just doing what John knew, which told Seb quite a lot about how appropriate his reaction had been after John had been shot -- presence was everything for John. It was quite a lot for Seb as well, but he just couldn't stop the fucking mental loop. Couldn't see a way out, because he'd fucked up and almost ended up dead, and shit. Christ.

"Probably not," John said as he sat down.. "But he uh… suggested about how I'm helping you recover. That it might not be what you are used to, or what you need. That I know what you need but uh, I've gone about it wrong."

He quirked an eyebrow at John, and took a sip of the cooled coffee. Not bad, not cold, just drinkable. And John was all but tap-dancing, so fast that Seb wasn't sure he was following it at all right. John knew what he needed but it wasn't what he was used to or needed? Did *he* even know himself what he needed? "I don't know. My head's sort of gone to shit. I can't get a hold of myself. It's all..." There. It was all right there, crowding at him, all of it at once, Maybourne with his cell phone held as a bribe for water and then the gun in his hand, and then the bars of the cage, and it all just lapped together.

"He said that maybe you needed to be taken down in a controlled way so you could be put back together right," John said after a pause. He shifted a little uncomfortably. "I've just been trying to give you space and quiet so you can regain your control but... do you need the control forced on you?"

Yeah. There was a reason they never really talked about that -- it wasn't that things weren't good, because they were, they were bloody fantastic, and he still reacted to John like the first time all over again, three years later. But every time his tendencies came up in discussion, John stood about three feet away from him and his body language echoed his mental discomfort. It was usually Seb's reward for putting up with something, a little light kink, a little restraint. It wasn't like John was vanilla and boring by any stretch of the imagination. John liked the thrill of almost getting caught in public, got on fine with Seb's casual, constant nearness, open affection.

It was just something they never really talked about. He could kill for a cigarette just then, and slouched a little in the chair, looking sideways instead of actually at John. It was a shame that the only interesting thing to his left was a pair of trainers with the laces tucked in. "Yeah, might help." With Jim it had been constant, a continual process, so everything bad was just immediately slotted away. And it'd stayed there for years, dealt with, so the manic little fucker had done something right. "I know you don't -- I know, given what happened, you're reluctant. And that's all right. I'll get myself together."

"I'm reluctant to traumatise you even more," John said coming closer. "I don't want to hurt you in a... something that will hurt *you* as opposed to something you will enjoy type way. I know I'm not good at this part of things but I'd do anything for you if it will help Seb, seriously. Just tell me the sort of thing you need to do or what works."

"I..." He swallowed, and forced himself to look up at John, and all right, closer was better. Closer was much better, but when he spoke, his voice sounded horrible, rough even to his own ears. "I need *you* to hurt me."

John came and sat close to him, absently taking his hand, fingers smoothing over skin and a bandage where his favourite leather band used to be, but had fallen casualty to the events of the previous two weeks. "I can do that," he said in a calm even tone. "I need to understand what I have to do, though. What does it for you? What... brings things back into focus?"

What brought him back into focus. "Restraint. Not having a choice in the matter." But John already knew that bit, that was all they ever played with. He turned his arm over, watching John's fingers trail over the edge where skin met bandage. He needed an example that wasn't Jim. "And it's pain, it's really feeling pain. When you're going to die, you can't feel it. You stop feeling, because if you feel it to do more than fuck with their heads, you're going to break. I... do you want examples?"

“Yeah, if you can." John looked curiously intent, like he did when he was trying to wrap his head around it, to make it work for him.

Seb kept his focus on their hands, rather than John's face, because he was good at reading micro expressions and he'd rather just. Not see a flicker of anything on John's face. "So, Kosovo. I came back, my live-in was cheating on me, and I'd done some things on the ground that I wasn't really getting past. And I had all of this energy carrying forward and now we're garrisoned again, and it's training and forms and fucking paperwork, and how many vehicles in your unit are going back to the depot, nice day, huh? Shit for me to really. Deal with. I had running drink nights with my first sergeant, and he mentioned he'd had this extremely vivid fantasy about raping me." 

Seb waited a beat, and flicked his eyes up to John. "We'd been downrange together, and he was tolerable enough that I didn't immediately kick his fucking teeth in, because that's a hell of a thing to say to your commanding officer, even if you are drunk. He was on his way out, and I was just. Fucked up and tired, and horny and thought, to hell with it, right. Someone around this fucking hellhole should be happy. So we 'arranged' it, set the boundaries with pretty wide left and right limits. You know, don't kill me, condoms are a must, you bring any friends in on this and it's off. I went to the pre-arranged bad part of town where we could get away with it. He..." Seb shifted his hand, ran his fingertips over John's palm. "Fuck." Of all the times to run out of words, to falter a little, because he was usually casual about what he did.

John wasn't pulling away, and his fingers were gentle as they tangled with his. "He made it real enough?" he said and it was a good thing that John wasn't pulling away because that would have broken him.

"Yeah." Seb swallowed to clear his throat, still watching their hands. "It was real enough for both of us. I had belt marks on my neck for weeks where he choked me out, and I fought the handcuffs. I had no control in the moment, and it hurt. Sensation for sensation, from what I remember, it wasn't much different from the real thing." Which he was actually having trouble with for the first time in his life, even though he knew there was a tangible difference. Partner, versus a parade of complete fucking strangers that he still needed to hunt down and have killed. Simple, clear lines.

John looked conflicted. "Seb, is that… is that what you need? The horrific part of it? Because I'll be honest, I'm not sure if I can do that. I, I can take away control, yeah, I can even hurt you because I know that it is something you want but, if you need someone to act in a hatred, or humiliate you... I can't. I can't do that."

A lot of John's problems with it were starting to be illuminated too, and his reluctance was making a little more sense. Conflicted was better than John pulling away entirely. "Not hatred or humiliation. I don't take humiliation well, it's probably why this whole fiasco has been so bad. Yeah, my First sergeant probably hated me. In a..." Seb's fingers twitched a little against John's. "I don't know. I really don't make the best fucking choices when it comes down to that. All those teeth mark scars are from Jim." 

"Are you willing to try it my way?" John asked. "I'll turn up the intensity, but I'm going to do it because... Well, because I love you. You ever had that? Was Jim like that?"

"I'm sure possession overlaps love somewhere on the continuum." He leaned in and up, and the positioning was awkward, but he pressed a slow open-mouthed kiss against John's neck. "Please. Anything." 

John nodded seriously. "Tonight then. I need to go… get a few things. Prepare a bit, you know, think things through a little to do this right. I don't want to screw it up."

He slid his other arm over John's shoulders, loosely, and murmured against John's skin before letting him go. "I think you'd be hard pressed to do that. I trust you. That's... the important part." He'd trusted Jim, too, misplaced or not, but the trust made everything *better*. 

"Yeah, I know," John kissed him back and smiled. "Hopefully you won't be so restless now you know what we are going to do. Something to hold on to. "

"Different restless." As John pulled away, Seb leaned to pick his laptop back up. The coffee was past warm and headed to lukewarm or cold now. "I know this isn't easy for you."

"I've never been about easy," John replied getting up. "Just look at the people I've chosen to live with." It was a light tease and John grabbed his jacket. "You do what makes you comfortable while waiting. I will be taking me time. Don't book anything in tomorrow."

"Yeah, that won't be a problem." He stretched his legs out, slouched turning less defensive and more comfortable. If Mycroft wanted to try something, he could go Fuck himself.

It was hard to not feel completely anticipatory, and the waiting was nice in a way. If nothing else he was going to have a distracting afternoon wondering what John might do.

* * *

John had ended up doing rather a lot that afternoon, and a great deal of it had been spent talking with Irene who rather delightedly spent her time trying to make him blush as he acquired certain items that he was going to be using. In among her usual coquettish banter, he had pumped her information on danger signs, how to push, to create the good feelings not the bad, and how to deal with the particular types of trauma that Seb had endured. He had listened as if his life depended on it and Irene had lost the mocking edge and finally started talking about the difference between what Seb was used to and what he could give him. How the experience done in love was like the difference between a beer and the finest whisky or cognac. And likewise how you needed less to achieve more, because of the emotional charge.

Then she'd allowed him to borrow a few things and sent him home with a bag he would die of embarrassment if he dropped anywhere. John mulled over suggestions, and Irene's comments on addressing the specifics of the experience as best he could, and shopped for a few treats in food and drink as that deprivation had twisted food into a power symbol, and that he was going to twist back to trust. Lastly he went and bought another braided leather and metal band similar to the one that Seb had lost during the ordeal. He'd noted the way he had fiddled absently at the area.

Then and only then did he return home, ready for the evening as he ever would be.

He ignored Sherlock in an amused way -- Sherlock was the one ignoring him. With headphones on as he hunched over his laptop. He waved as John walked past with his gear. So no sign of Seb downstairs. He was probably waiting upstairs. Hopefully he was looking forward to what they were going to do. John needed to get into the mood himself.

He opened the door to their room, looking around for Seb. The first hint of what Seb had been doing was the extra humidity on the floor -- so, he'd showered, and probably re-bandaged. That was a good mental image before he even looked to the bed to see Seb stretched out naked, bar the bandages, and casual, his arms crossed behind his head.

"Hope I haven't kept you waiting too long," he said putting his bags down. He looked a little more in focus already and that was a good sign. Heartening at least that John was on the right track with what he was planning.

"Nah. I was just editing a few building layouts." He shifted, sitting up slowly, watching John and the bags with a curious intensity. Usually they made do with belts and neck ties, or Seb's never ending supply of rope. This time he had borrowed some more comfortable and impressive looking restraints that Irene had recommended.

"Good." He smiled a little, anticipating Seb's anticipation. "You ready now? Last chance for a bathroom break..."

"Yeah, I'll uh -- give you a minute for whatever you're setting up." He got off the bed smoothly, and walked naked to the bathroom. It didn't take long, but Seb did give John just enough time to shrug out of his jacket and start to get comfortable.

He had a quick tidy of the room; Irene had pointed out that if you were messing around with things that might inflict pain you really didn't want to be tripping over things in the process and then while Seb waited he lit a few very large candles and turned the lamps on, making the lighting more intimate. Then he deliberately went over and locked their door, as much for the psychological reassurance of not being disturbed as anything. Then and only then he took out the leather cuffs. The cuffs had the added bonus of being wide enough to not cut into the damaged area's on Seb's wrists, thick and padded. "Okay then," he said approaching him. "Ground rules... you've got to promise me you will tell me if you are freaking out - this isn't the same as when we usually do it."

Seb licked his bottom lip, and nodded as he looked at John. "I don't think it'll happen, but if it does, I will. I think you've heard me say stop and actually mean it " There was a different note to his voice, and yeah, John had heard it... Less than a week ago. Half a week. It was still too soon for anything to really be sane, but Seb knew what worked for him. Seb was eyeing John like he was a hot cup of tea on a miserable rainy day.

"Well then. First of all we have these," he said presenting the cuff restraints. They were the type that you put on and then used the rings with clips of chains. He had some lengths of that and leather to use when he wanted to attach him to the bed. He took hold of Seb’s wrists and very carefully made them snug. "They look rather nice on you," he commented.

Seb was watching John's fingers, looking at the leather wrapped over top of the bandages. No sharp cuff edges to dig into his skin, just evenly distributed pressure. The edge of Seb's mouth quirked. "Okay, this is interesting."

"Let's just say I took some expert advice," John replied. "It means I can keep you in them longer and… use them in different positions." He moved to do the same with ankle straps. "They feel good?"

He waited for John to stand up again, and nodded. "Yeah, tight but comfortable." Not so loose that they'd chafe, either. He lifted his eyebrows at John. "So. This is new, as well."

"What is?" John asked glancing up at Seb as he went about affixing the tethers. Yes, he was definitely in more focus. That heartened him.

"Talking during this part. Being conscious during this part." Seb sounded upbeat about it, watching John with open interest, glancing at the cuffs on his wrists that were waiting for chain. 

"I like talking," John said. "Though I may shut you up later, as you appear to like that too. Hands together above your head to start with. I'm taking my time with you tonight." And he wanted him to be able to twist over so he could get to his back.

John clipped them together, and then pushed Seb back carefully so he could tether it to the centre of the headboard. Nothing stressful. Irene had told him to start simple and then build on the levels of tolerances bit by bit, rather than jump right into spread eagle blindfold, gag, full on punishment. He didn't want to hit any trauma responses if he could manage it. He stood and then slipped off his own clothes. "Someone has put marks on you Seb, and it wasn't me. Someone caused you pain with them, and that wasn't me either. I'm going to reclaim every one of those marks before I do anything. I want you to look at those marks and remember what I did with them rather than anyone else." 

Seb licked his bottom lip, nodding as he squirmed a little, got comfortable with the position. Sense memory was strong for Seb, and always what he remembered first when he recounted something. Never 'I thought' but how something felt. If he could start by at least giving Seb a better feel-ing choice, it might help. It ought to help. "Okay."

He got out a little massage oil, because he was going to be sliding hands over bruised skin and it would need to be flexible, the pressure even and not tugging. Torso first. Dressings to unwrap, then he started smoothing the oil on lightly and teasing up to each bruise before kissing at it, and then rubbing the pressure in just a little. Enough to make Seb feel the ache and sting of the injury but not enough to cause further damage. The fractured rib was given a wide berth. He was nothing if not methodical and painstaking -- it was a therapeutic reclaiming of Seb's body, not just for Seb but for himself. Reassuring himself he was safe.

John could feel every muscle, examining and reassuring himself in a way that Seb hadn't let him before under more clinical-leaning pretences. John took his time, and Seb started to respond slowly, arching and squirming lazily. "Mmhm, that feels good."

It probably burned with an ache every time he touched a bruise. It was good because Seb was looking more languid, and relaxed which was where he needed him if the pain was going to bring on endorphins rather than fear. "All of you is going to belong to me..." he promised, able to be a touch possessive. "Twist on your front, I want a crack at that back of yours."

And that was going to make him groan in the 'hurts good' way, because it did at the best of times, let along with a screwed up back.

Seb put a heel on the mattress, and twisted slowly, arms flexing as he tried to use them and caught himself unable to. But he ended up on his stomach, head turned to one side, shoulders looking comfortably flexed as he spread his legs a little in invitation for closer contact. 

John smiled a little at that. He was going to do some there, but Irene had advised slow to start with. He nuzzled at the nape of Seb's neck which was always one of his hot spots, and then started kneading out the sore and hurt muscles, the bruises, the goddamn boot prints on flesh, working his way inexorably downwards, getting some very interesting noises from Seb as he hit his disastrous lower back. John didn't rush though, because if Seb was going to make it through a long session, he needed to not have to worry about back pain and cramps. 

Boot prints. 

He kept lingering back to that, trying to not imagine someone *standing* with one foot on Seb's back between his shoulders hard enough to leave a bruise like that but to not kill him. Keeping him down on the ground while... what? 

John spread his thumbs on either side of Seb's spine, pressing firmly and heard a vertebra pop, triggering a half gasp from Seb. "Mmhm, Jesus that feels good."

"Getting the kinks out..." John said and then chuckled at himself. "Before I start putting some in.” Some really amazing crackling sounds came from Seb's back, and even as a doctor he was a little bit wary of them. They must have hurt when he popped them but he got these gasps, groans and shudders that were promising. He worked up Seb's legs too, digging deep into muscle, until they lost the knots and concrete rigidity, and then he started moving in towards his ass, and circling in to see how Seb was going to react to that. 

Quieter than usual. John could see his arms straining harder, hands clenched tight. He had his eyes closed, even as he started to rock his hips back up against John's hands in a slow way. The soft whine Seb gave was telling. Tension, but need as well. "How is it feeling?" John asked massaging in closer to being able to slip in a finger if he needed to do so.

"All right." So he was hitting on something already, which was a good start. Seb's mouth was open, breathing a little harder as John's fingers kneaded. His shoulders were stretching and straining to no end. "Please..."

"I'm going to check out how things are inside," he said. "If I'm going to be doing things with this ass later, I want to be sure." He dribbled the oil and eased just one finger in gently. Some puffiness but not as bad as he thought. A few days had done wonders for that, at least.

"Christ." Seb's hands jerked a little, almost startled-seeming at the sensation, but then he was trying to get a leg under himself to push back better. "You can do anything you want, John..."

"I'm going to," John said without even hesitating. "But there are some things I don't want to do, and I have to see... ah, there we go." He hit a sweet spot in there and Seb quivered, exhaled hard. "Good."

So now they could move on something more intense. He withdrew his fingers and said, "Turn over back on your back Seb. Now I've got you warmed up… it's time to turn up the intensity."

Time to lock him down and spread eagle him too, give him some of the tighter control and restraint he asked for.

In a position that wasn't triggering anything for either of them, because the boot print bruise was bothering John and while they were going to have to work back around to it, he'd rather have Seb in a better place before they got there again. 

Seb twisted around again, legs stretched out loosely as he watched John. "Umph, that's a good warm-up."

"Pretty good from my angle too." He felt a bit self conscious but Irene had told him to linger on the process of the actual restraining. Pull tight, even if you then loosened a little, slide leather and metal over skin. Stretch things, and then when they were locked in place, touch them in the vulnerable area, cause building amounts of pain in areas that would usually kick a reflex that they would feel was stifled.

Seb gave a quiet chuckle, closing his eyes. John didn't need to feel self conscious, and as he took his time, Seb was reacting. His hands un-knotted as John un-fastened his wrists from themselves, and drew each one to the side, fingers sliding along the chains as John settled them. It was a good reaction, and while Seb wasn't actively having to fight him off, he was definitely there in the moment, compliant. They did spread-eagled often enough that he could tell that Seb's reactions weren't as relaxed as usual, but he was definitely reacting in a good way.

He teased him a little, stroking his cock with lightly oiled hands, nothing serious but smooth and easy. "You told me about the electricity," he said after a moment. "Told me that it hurt but you got hard from it..."

The oil was important, too, for conducting more sensation, for stopping burns like the marks, healing red patches and one small strike burn that reminded John of a little lightning bolt. The skin there was already peeling like a sunburn. "It can feel pretty good," Seb agreed softly.

"I am going to make it feel good for you." He had to hold himself back from asking permission. Irene had been adamant about that. It would disrupt things, make it harder. You either said nothing or you told them what you were going to do. There was no choice about it, unless it was a choice between two options of punishment. He got out the adapted tens machine which had far more pads and voltage than a normal machine would have and began sticking them on Seb's inner thighs, checking constantly to see his expression. He had considered the blind fold at this stage but John was pretty sure he wanted Seb to see this happen.

And Seb's eyes were open this time, unlike during the much more familiar tied down portion. "That looks familiar. Nice gear."

"No guesses on who I visited this afternoon." He turned the channels on low until there was a visible twitch, knowing it would sting a bit but not a lot more at the moment. "I should say, part of my aim tonight is to see how many times I can make you come," he said, fondling Seb's balls. "So if you need to, you do so. I won't be stopping either way."

Seb's eyes closed a little, and he exhaled in a familiar huff at the low sensation, at John's hands on his balls, still slick, sliding over familiar skin. "Mhm, sounds like a good plan." A good way to take what had happened and finally give Seb release from it, comfortably, controlled, sexual in a way it hadn't been meant to be the first time and that Seb had done to himself to get through it. Just low pulsing charges, nothing anywhere near the chest cavity, and they had all the time in the world.

He notched it up, and continued the fondling, making the build slow until the setting had to be painful. The stronger the jolts, the more forceful the strokes on his cock. He would stop every now and then, but the stroking stopped too.

He could feel Seb holding onto himself, not giving in to it fully, and he was just going to have to keep doing it until he did relax and let himself re-experience it. John wasn't a clock-watcher, he just waited until the brief spasms of pained expression across Seb's face started to relax, until he started to make noises, bitten in half sounds that made John's dick ache while Seb tried and failed to thrust upwards. "Uhn. Oh fuck, please, John. Please..."

"I'm going to turn it up full, and you are going to come," John murmured. "It's going to stay at that setting until you do." He shifted a little because he was going to put his hand over Seb's mouth when he did so, and flipped it right up, clamping one hand on Seb's mouth and pumping hard on his cock with the other.

Right on cue. Seb made a noise behind John's hand, and it came out more like a muffled yowl, his eyes shut tight, fingers knotted around the chains where he could reach them. It made John want to stop, just briefly, to ease back a little because that was *pain*, wetness squeezed out at the corner of Seb's eyes, but he was coming despite the sharpness, despite that his muscles beneath the pads were fluttering and tight, ropey spatters of semen making a mess of John's fingers and Seb's belly, with the feeling of Seb's tongue against the palm of his hand as he groaned against John's fingers.

He flicked the machine off immediately, finding that point of real pain difficult to hold his resolve through, but he leaned in as he removed his hand and started kissing Seb even as he was still gasping. Emotional intensity was easier for John to give, and Seb took it, kissing him back desperately, despite that he was still breathless from the pain. Or maybe because of it, the movement and choice he had in that moment in the sensation of John's mouth against his.

He kissed the reaction into something caring and warm and this reaction turned him on, this follow up to what Seb wanted was what he wanted. Eventually, though, he had to break for breath and smiled down at Seb. "Well, you seemed to enjoy that."

Close enough to touch, but not touching. Seb leaned up a little to try to close that space, but couldn't from the tightness of his positioning. "Yeah. Yeah, that's a word for it. Fuck."

On another night that might have been it, but John had a lot more planned. "We're not done yet. Not by a long shot." He wiped up a little, pulling off the adhesive pads and then wiped off his hands with the alcohol gel rubs. Irene had told him that varying attention could keep the sensations intense and pleasurable, so now he fetched two nipple clamps from the bag and shifted down to start the pleasurable part of the process, the licking and sucking before carefully putting them on and continuing for a bit to get them very sensitive.

Different noises from Seb that time, no howling pain, but he was giving groans and sighs and watching John with open eyes. He was probably trying to work out what came next, but John was in no hurry. He liked the way Seb twisted and pulled at the cuffs when he licked around one nipple, liked that he was warm and *alive* under John's hands, responding not to some ingrained pain trigger that anyone could strike off in Seb, but to careful pleasure that he'd kept restricted to John Watson.

Carefully, John fetched the nice snug blindfold and slipped it on around Seb's head, and then got hold of a vibrator, taking his time to use it against the metal clamps on the nipples, and rolling it down muscles and then on the inner thigh, before teasing around balls, and asshole.

It was easier for John to enjoy that part, to carefully tease Seb's ass with the well slicked toy. Plenty of lube was going to be his concession to sanity as they continued playing, and Seb didn't seem to be protesting it in between swallowed groans and hitches of his hips. His dick was slowly twitching to life a little, half hard again.

He kept him off balance a little with the teasing. It was fun to be watching him so intently seeking for the next move, the next push of limits. Time for the next intense experience. He left the vibrator on low and returned to Seb's cock. "This is going to be new," he said. He at least had experience of inserting a urethral sound, even if he hadn't done what had been described to him by Irene.

It was best to get started before Seb got completely hard again, because the better erection the more it was going to hurt. "Uh-huh?" Seb sounded lost a little in the general sensation.

"Trust me," he said, lubing the sound and starting the process of threading it in. It was one that Irene had made with a loop in the top. He was going to attach a link from the nipple clamps to the top loop, so every time Seb breathed it would shift and tug a little.

It garnered a low, soft moan from Seb, moving his hips a little against John's carefully steadying fingers. "What, jesus, what is that?"

"A urethral sound." The clips were, the cold metal chains short enough to pull taut, especially when he tweaked them a little. "How does it feel?"

"Fuck." Seb licked his bottom lip, and flexed his pectorals, giving a shaky exhalation. "That's brilliant."

John chuckled and lay beside him to kiss and play with the chain a little. "It looks like it is having interesting effects."

Seb went to put his arm around John almost reflexively, and couldn't; John felt the bed jerk. "Damn, yeah. That's good." Half hard was sliding to hard, and John could jack himself off a little while he watched Seb twitch with the sensation every time he breathed.

It was fun to do, and he had his plans for getting off himself, in the shower. The vibrator was still buzzing on low, Seb was having fun and there was an extra twist. "Now for the piece de resistance.." He found the violet wand in the bag and lightly touch it to the top of the steel loop in his cock.

Seb jerked his head to the side sharply, hissing as he jerked his hips upward roughly. "Oh god, oh god..."

John was a little worried and took it away, trying it on his own arm. It damn well stung, so it probably had been a bit harsh at the offset. There was no way to turn it down, so he settled for literally a zap of a second at a time, letting it run up the chain a little too.

But no asking if Seb was all right, no prodding for reassurance; the sharpness of reaction to it eased back. It settled to Seb arching and biting at his bottom lip. 

He turned up the vibrator in Seb’s ass, reaching down to move it, thrust it in and out, while still providing little zaps of pain. He wanted him to come again, to feel the urge of being pushed to orgasm.

It took more time, but Seb finally reached it, struggling and groaning as his hips jerked up. "Please..." He pulled the urethral sound out fluidly and then bent over to suck him off for that last bit. He wanted the feeling to be a little different.

Pain, as stimulating as it was, and pleasure in equal balance. Seb came in his mouth after all of a few thrusts, the quickest blowjob John ever remembered, leaving Seb panting and limp against the mattress. "Uhmn. John..."

"Mm." He didn't swallow, not this time, although he was pretty sure Seb would be clean. "Two in a row.. "

"I think you're trying to kill me," Seb sighed, squirming his hips a little because the vibrator was still running. John wiped at the edges of his mouth.

He took the vibrator out, and laughed. "In a good way I hope. We're still not done though." But now was a time for a slow down, something more mellow and psychological.

* * *

He was left alone for a moment, still blindfolded, still held entirely in place spread-eagled, but feeling blissfully relaxed and at ease. There were sensations, little jumpy feelings, still pinging all over him, little twinges of sensation, even as John took the nipple clamps off of him, and there was a fucking rush of blood that left him breathing hard all over again. Twice in one day was comfortably impressive, and every muscle in his body ached from wanting, from strain, from just feeling. It was a relief to feel, and to have his eyes open or closed behind the blindfold and for nothing to change. 

Everything was in John's hands.

John was putting his wrists down from spread eagle into the more relaxed tether, and his ankles too. It was comfortable. "You did very well. I think you need something to get your strength back, don't you?" There was a lot of rustling going on and the awareness that John had gone over away from him briefly.

He shifted, arms no longer pinioned over his head but down, so his shoulders could relax. It was almost like not being tethered at all, if he didn't fight it. And he wasn't fighting it, he was just letting himself enjoy it. Twice in one day, that'd been a while. "Could do."

There was a rustling and then John moving him a bit awkwardly. After a bit of shifting around so he could sit behind him with Seb pillowed on his lap. Then he said, "Here, a bit of light refreshment..." and something was put gently to his lips.

He took a sip, expecting water, or maybe John's ever present tea. It surprised him to taste sour and a faint fermented fizz, and mint. He swallowed, eyes closed behind the blindfold as he took another sip. Doogh, and it'd been a damn long time since he'd had that. It wasn't something a fellow really sought out, and Seb had only taken John to the nearest thing he could get -- a nice Turkish place -- a couple of times over the years. 

John certainly deserved an award for paying attention when he mentioned things.

He was given a few more sips then the glass went briefly away and another morsel was pressed to his lips. It was different, meaty and aromatic with dense spices like the roasted meats he had praised loudly to Raham Dal when they had sat at his table.

Simple, but flavour rich enough to make him take his time chewing. It felt like it would almost melt in his mouth, and John gave him another few pieces, slowly. He shifted his shoulders, and leaned back against John a little better, feeling him breathe, feeling him leaning to get something else.

He was given another few sips of the doogh, the cool mint complimenting the spices of the meat. Then there was a small piece of some sort of rather delicious bread and it was like the sense memories of the treats of his childhood coming back to him. The next thing to his lips he recognised instantly, from the texture if nothing else.

The sweetness, and the texture of the oil, the taste of rosewater and pistachio, with the smooth texture told him right away that John had picked up some kind of Halva. That he let sit on his tongue, melting into his senses, the faint taste of saffron blooming in there as well. "Mmhm."

John chuckled. "Sweet fiend," he said fondly kissing the back of his neck. "Don't think I didn't notice how you always accepted the sweets they shared with you."

He smirked a little, swallowing the last lingering bit. "'s good, I just never think to treat myself." Food was more something to exist on, or something that was a pain in the ass to pull together, that had to be done.

"No, that's my job," John said firmly in a way that did strange things to the way he felt.

It was too damn soon to feel any heated sensations pooling in his stomach, but there it was. Not really arousal, just. Smug enjoyment, maybe. Not even smug. Present. He just liked the sound of it. Seb leaned his head back a little, trying to see what he could get away with. 

John let him lie back against him. It was comfortable and he could feel John warm and solid behind him still feeding his tidbits every now and then, teasing him a little on the lips with more of the same, while practically wrapped around him.

His arms were caught in front of him, tethered well, and while he couldn't do much more than sit there and enjoy what John was feeding him, John's familiar solidity behind and wrapped around him. It was soothing, and interspersed with familiar tastes that he hadn't had in a long time. 

If it was John's idea of slowly easing him back from the sensations, he was doing a good job.

He felt... calmer, freer than he had for a long time. There was something very warmly possessive about John and it felt clean and intensely satisfying. He found himself relaxing and drowsily settling there. It was all right. He *could* just settle there and enjoy feeling John, letting the sensation of him settle into his bones. John's lingering kisses against the back of his neck was settling, too, always a weak spot for Seb because his skin was sensitive there, the muscles usually too tense.

He wasn't sure how long he just floated like that, but eventually John moved again and he brought something that felt like leather and metal to his hands to feel. He felt it quizzically, finally deducing it was a collar with a chain attached.

Collars generally implied mobility, so they were going somewhere other than the bed. "Huh." His fingers lingered over the leather, feeling the edges as he kept his eyes open behind the blindfold. "I'm game."

John fixed it around his neck, and then he got him to sit up and unhooked his legs. There was a tug on his neck, a gentle pressure. "Come with me Seb."

No eyesight, he just had to follow, hesitant for the first few steps because he was completely blind and that was unnerving. Then John tugged again, so he started to walk forward a little less cautiously, at least trying to do what John wanted.

It took a level of trust to do that, as John walked a little until he seemed less hesitant, and then they ended up going into another room and then he heard the shower door pop. He heard a clank of chain being attached to one of the fixtures by the sound of it and this was definitely interesting.

He was along for the ride -- and it was a good ride, hadn't had any doubts so far in what John was doing except for that moment right at the start where he'd fought himself because face down with no ability to move had been a bit of a tweaking, high strung feeling that had left his heart racing. It all felt good, *hurt* good. His interest was piqued, but he still felt calm, grounded. 

The shower turned on and John was starting to wash him off. "You know... you look pretty much unbearably sexy like this," he said. "You have no idea..."

"Can't see a thing." The edges of his mouth quirked, and he tilted his head up a little because he could feel his hair sticking down. More wet dog than sexy, really, but he wasn't going to argue with John on his taste.

"I know," John sounded amused, using the shower head to get rid of evidence of what they were doing. "Clean..." There was an adjustment with his hands, giving him more slack there. "Now you are going to clean me, by touch."

"I can manage that." The hardest part was finding the shower gel, until John put it in his palm, and from there he oriented himself to the shelf so he could set it aside periodically. He started with John's chest, sliding gel slicked fingers over John's chest, shoulders, arms, in a steady progressive way. He'd always joked that he could recognise John with his eyes closed, but he had an opportunity to test it then, fingers lingering first at the bullet scar on John's shoulder, then the through and through. Then the surgery scars.

It was a strangely intimate experience. This was his John, the one who had done all this , wanted to do all this for him and was doing it with that quiet competence and intensity that people usually overlooked. Despite everything John seemed to think he was worth the effort, someone to protect in a way that would seem laughable looking at the two of them together but Seb knew him the way he knew the feel of injuries and wounds on his skin.

His fingers trailed over John's back, awkward with his limited slack, but he still managed, having to lean in close to John. Seb took the opportunity to press a kiss against that spot on John's jaw, just beneath his ear, before he moved as steadily as he could to his knees with more shower gel in his hands. The muscles still wobbled a little, but John didn't immediately steady him and he appreciated that as he started to run his fingers over John's calves, his feet, back up to his thighs.

There was ample evidence that John has still yet to come as part of the evening, though he had not said a word about it. Instead, he very carefully guided Seb's head towards his cock, the instruction definitely implicit.

The blindfold was sopping wet against his eyes, but he still couldn't see through it as he leaned forward that extra bit, fingers pressed against John's hip. Fingers in his hair felt good, John's touch always damningly familiar to him as he opening his mouth, starting with slow kisses pressed along the underside of John's erection.

"Yes. That's it.," John murmured. "I want you to suck me, nice and slow."

It was easy to start, just a shift of his head, mouth open comfortably to take John in nice and slow, as per direction, taking his time laving attention to his cockhead, before going for the easy but effective deep throating. He could feel his own dick twitch, but no rush, they'd get there again. He concentrated on John in his mouth, the feeling of his hipbone under his

He could hear the growing difference in the way John was breathing, the way he was reacting, obviously holding himself back from the brink, as he continued. There was the odd little twitch as if John was wanting to move in his mouth but was drawing back from it. Seb wondered if he could get John to let go a bit. He pulled back, slurping back along John's length before taking him in again, head tilted enough that if his eyes were open he would've been looking at John's face. As it was, he could feel more hot water sluicing over his neck and shoulders. 

There was a moment where John held him still, obviously to regain his composure because then he reached down to untie the blindfold, and let him blink into the light after an age of not being able to see. John's expression was one of intense need and desire and that was a heady feeling as well. He'd put that look there, him. Seb blinked again, eyelashes fighting the water for him for a moment before he lowered his eyes and sucked John harder, fingers stretching.

He got groans this time and the thunk of John's head against the side of the door as his eyes appeared to roll back in his head. He was revelling in it but eventually he cleared his throat and said "Stop," in a firm tone, obviously expecting him to obey instantly. He did, but he took his time backing off from it, too, pulling back and letting hot water and air take his place, fingers still holding tight again John's skin.

"I’m going to fuck you," John said, pulling him up by the chain on the collar. "Arms up so I can attach you up there." It would probably play havoc with the fixtures in the shower but John did not seem to care.

Seb'd be the one up there fixing it after the fact, though... Not today. He put his arms up, but he could watch John that time, not just feel what he was doing but see it was well.

He wasn't facing the wall which was good, where he was secured but outwards and John was slipping on a condom rapidly. He leaned in kissed him and then used the blindfold as a partial gag, even as he put the lid of the shower gel in Seb’s hand. "You drop that, I will stop," he said. "Even if I'm in the middle of an orgasm I will stop. If I find out afterwards you didn't drop it and we should have we will never do anything like this again, are we clear?"

He nodded, watching John's eyes as he closed his fingers around it. Seb was really sure that was a completely unnecessary thing to throw in there, because he'd never had a problem with it in his life. Never.

It was usually the other way around when they tried this sort of position in the shower, Seb with John half wrapped around him supported by his strength sinking onto his cock. It was a testament to John's compact solidity that there wasn't a grunt of effort when he followed the instructions and pulled himself up a little, to then carefully sink onto John's cock.

"Oh fuck." That was a different feeling than the vibrator, it was *John* sliding into him as his arms went tense and his hands clenched tight for a moment as he settled. It left Seb to focus on the sensation of being stretched, the vague soreness that went with it, his body tense and shaking for a moment before he reminded himself hey, John. John's familiar skin and hands and arms, and he could *see* him. Right there. He wasn't going to drop the bloody cap.

"Look at me," John instructed, not moving. "Look at me Seb, it's me, you're safe." Obviously he had gone tense and John had noticed. He saw him looking, checking his hand briefly.

He nodded, because sometimes words weren't at all reliable and he had no idea what he'd say. "Yeah. Just." The words were mumbled against the gag, and he bit at it, clenching hard. He pressed his cheek against John's, breathing hard for a moment. Fuck, fuck, fuck. He just needed a minute.

John just held him there, steady, waiting. He could do this. The vibrator hadn't been a problem and this was John. John who was taking the gag off now, with a faintly worried look. "Okay?"

His jaw was clenched tight, even with the gag removed. "Yeah. Please move." Remind his body and not his eyes that it was John, because John *moved* a certain way, had a very familiar rhythm.

"Don't force it," John murmured and kissed him again and that helped, the kissing, even as he started his very familiar gentle movements, getting a little deeper in weird triplets of thrusts. It was an awkward but interesting position, and he couldn't move his arms down, couldn't do anything but take it. It started to feel better, even if he still had a death grip on the cap, because kisses were smothering down that racing heart feeling. 

It was John, it tasted like John, even if it was a John who had been eating his halva and it hurt a bit but he could see what was happening and that made it good to go along with it. Some of the clutch of...whatever reaction it was started to fade. The thrusting remained steady, not quite relentless, but he was starting to go with it, feeling the ache with every thrust, trying to better get a leg around John even if he couldn't get his hands into the picture. It felt increasingly good, a push and slide and John's expression of intense concentration and holding back. He was seriously going to try and fuck him to another orgasm. Seb wasn't even sure if that was possible.

His back pressed hard against the stall wall, while John repositioned himself just enough to keep thrusting, arms clutching tight as Seb tried to be at least a little useful, except there wasn't much more to do but take it and moan, finally relaxing into it.

The plentiful kisses were helping him along mentally, and it was somehow cathartic to go through this. He trusted John, trusted him implicitly and he would never have been able to do this without it being him.

Steadied against the wall, John finally started to thrust harder, deeper, still slowly building. Nothing frantic. He didn't think the hot water heater would ever recover, and it was starting to run cooler just when his erection started to finally come around.

He would pause every now and then and use a hand to stroke his cock, to bring him up to pace but obviously he wanted to move even more. The pace picked up again, John practically gasping as he did so.

"C'mon, c'mon..." Seb tried to lean into John, tried to goad him on as best as he could -- tightening around John, trying to just get that little extra stimulation.

It was obviously more than enough for John who had been holding back the whole time and he groaned and started thrusting wildly, in frantic movements until he obviously came.

Except, without the slickness of semen, which was almost a relief. His back spasmed a little in protest as the position, and John started to ease back, pulling out with Seb still hard. The water was going cool.

John eased his arms down and then reached down to work him to his climax, turning off the cold water. There was nothing he could do to stop him, nothing he wanted to do either. Nothing to do but feel, feel John, let his head fall forward and thrust into John's hand, while the other slid behind him to cup his ass. "Please, John. Fuck, please..." Just a little more, he was almost there, and it *hurt* to be that close to orgasm again but it hurt in a good way.

"Come for me," John murmured, stroking hard and fast. "Last time, just one more, that's it..."

"Nghn, Christ, John..." He felt it seconds before it hit, left him gasping and the muscles in his stomach twitching, his body trying to curl in on itself reflexively for just a moment when he came over John's fingers.

There was a moment of mutual panting, and John rinsed away the stickiness, both of them a little shaky. "Come on, time for resting. I need to redo your bandages, and I have one more gift for you."

"I think three 's really plenty," Seb quipped, leaning into John's shoulder for a moment as he tried to catch his breath. His leg was shaking, but it was all muscle weakness, tension from strain, and it felt rather satisfying, like he'd run too hard, too far. 

He still hadn't dropped the shower gel cap.

John smiled. "Yeah, that was pushing it wasn't it?" He led them both out, unclipping the restraints and putting them to dry on the towel rail, and the collar too. 

Seb stretched his back a little, and when John turned around, he held the cap out. He felt good, loose, at ease, a little less like everything was clambering for attention. "I think it can go back on the bottle now."

"Yeah." John took the cap from him and smiled. "Yeah, it can. Come on, put the robe on the water was getting cold."

The edges of his mouth quirked up a little as he started to shrug the robe on. His muscles ached, but in a worked out way, not pain. All the aches and pains and injuries were still there, and his wrists were sort of killing him, but they'd be fine once they were bandaged up again. "New hot water heater."

"Yeah. We do tend to use it up." John smiled. "I'm just going to change the bed a minute. Nothing better than clean bedding. Oh and there's just a little of your incredible expensive alcohol there. Just to warm you through. I shouldn't recommend it but I will."

"I won't protest." He kept out of the way, watching John moving around their bedroom in his old striped robe. The bottle was there, with the shot glass beside it, and he poured himself a small amount, watching John and wondering what was next. If they just crawled back into bed to rest, it would've been fine with him.

John changed their duvet and sheets, and put a towel down and beckoned for him to come over. "Those injuries have had a good sluicing out today." He was ready with bandages and dressings. "Did we strain anything?”

"Back's a bit of a mess, but I think that's standard right now. Better than it was earlier." Just a mess in the usual spots, because John had magical fingers.

"Good." John was deft with his fingers and Seb found himself remembering a different ache when the bruises were touched this time around. "More massage needed?"

"Yeah." He set the now empty shot glass aside, looking up at John as he carefully worked. "So, I think I did find a position I'd rather not do for a while."

"Yeah?" John asked as he wrapped and tended to the injuries again.

"Face down's going to be a problem for a while." He leaned a little, nudging his nose against John's hair as he bent in, but leaning back before John moved again.

"Mm, I figured," John said and smiled. "You know you're like a big cat some times. There, that's about done."

The edge of his mouth tugged up a little, and he reached a hand out to settle it at John's side. "I adore you. Why wouldn't I like just randomly touching you?"

John smiled. "I love you too. Oh, yeah... the last thing. I have.." He rustled around off the end of the bed. "Ah there we go. A present." He held up a leather and metal shot braid bracelet. "It's not right you not having it, and I want it to be mine."

The low chuckle he gave was startled out of him, one hand still lingering at John's side as he looked at it. "And I thought you were the best boyfriend ever after you got me a bear."

"I should probably say something profound about now," John said fixing it around his wrist. "I, uh... I'll do my best to give you what you need. I don't want you punishing yourself for things, I'll... do that if it needs to be done."

"Right." That time he didn't give John much of a chance to get away, hand sliding over fabric before he pulled John in closer, to sit with him on the bed, to tangle up with him. No cuffs, all the touching he wanted. "Okay. I can do that. Thank you." It was probably fucked up of him, and not at all psychologically sound. Nothing was actually fixed, but it felt good, it felt grounding. He was still tracking every motion in the room, but he was feeling it as well, and that was excellent.

"And aside from finishing off the snacks I brought and getting crumbs in the bed I thought that would be enough," John said. "Seriously, was it okay?"

"You brought out the industrial grade tens equipment for me." He pressed a kiss against John's shoulder, pushing his robe back a little. "I can't quite explain how good that felt. To really just feel it and know that you weren't trying to get information or anything out of me."

"I was a bit... hesitant doing it," John admitted. "But seeing that you were loving it, well, that made the difference. I've no desire to hurt you but I've plenty of desire to give you pleasure."

"It's not like I don't get a lot of enjoyment just out of this. I do." He nudged John to stretch out, because lying down sounded excellent just then.

"I thought the sound would be different," John said. "I think the violet wand was maybe stronger than I thought."

Post-sex after action review. It wasn’t something Seb was going to protest, even if it was funny as fuck. "Just a bit of a bite. I thought momentarily that I was going to piss myself."

John dragged the bag of food up on the bed and then pulled the covers around them. "Well, most of this was on loan so... uh, we might have to get our own."

He slid a hand under John's robe, reaching for the Halva again as they settled in. "Easy enough to do. It's really... Intense, no marks."

"Mm," John smiled stealing some of the Halva. "I couldn't remember if it was you or Becks who liked the fudge stuff. This place I found had that too."

"Becks." Seb rolled it between his fingers for a moment before popping it into his mouth. "We'll have to go there sometime." He'd been surprised about the doogh, too, and that John had done it all for him. Not that John would do that, just... he hadn't expected it to be quite so. Spot on.

"I thought it would be good comfort food?" John asked, and it was like he was feeling he needed to check it to be on the safe side. He stole a bit himself. "It's very good. The mint in particular."

"It is." He shifted in, stole a kiss at the edge of John's mouth. "You took me down very well, John, and. I'm still coherent enough to talk afterwards." If he was honest, he was still feeling very sated, very relaxed, very open to any suggestions. Not that John ever asked for things he wasn't willing to give anyway.

"Yeah. I'm pretty tired as well," John murmured. "I love you."

And he knew, because John had come back for him. John never seemed willing to press the ’fuck it, too hard to bother with’ button, and Seb was pretty sure most people would've punched out already. "Get some rest. I'll be here when you wake up."

* * *

By 9am the next morning, he'd completed cataloging his brief dalliance with the most effective ways for a criminal to get away with what was roundly considered a well-deserved murder, if there ever had been such a thing.

John had, of course, taken his advice on the matter of how best to deal with Sebastian. The worst part was that John *clearly* knew what was the best route to take but had been deliberately avoiding it because it made him uncomfortable -- as once it was suggested by an outside party, he seemed to know exactly what to do, and had set off immediately. The hours of moaning and muffled noises, Sebastian's voice rising up in swears every so often, made Sherlock want to invest in better soundproofing between upstairs and downstairs. Given the initial renovations to the flat and the lack of soundproofing to date, clearly John was unaware of the noise drift, and Mrs. Hudson had never mentioned it to them.

Additionally, given that John was coming down the stairs at a decent clip, pace upbeat, it told Sherlock that the whole plan had been wildly successful, of course. It also said wonders about the nature of John's relationship with the man -- far too emotionally entangled for Sherlock's tastes, given that John's limp had come back while the man had been missing, but in a glass house it was ill advised to throw stones until one was at least standing on the porch.

Sebastian Moran obviously wasn't going anywhere, and would in fact likely become more present than he had during his attempts to shield criminal work from Sherlock's prying eyes.

"Good morning."

"Morning," John said as he moved around with barely a trace of a limp, grabbing bread for toast and finding his teabags which Sherlock had been tempted to move around. "Did you bother to go to bed last night?" 

"Briefly. I ran the tap this morning and was surprised to find that the hot water heater still worked. I thought it might have burned itself out," Sherlock drawled, "in protest. Is Moran still tied up upstairs?"

John didn't even blink. "Nope," he said. "He'll be down when he wakes up. Hope we didn't disturb you too much." Toast was in and kettle was boiling. John definitely looked more like himself which was a relief. Secondary trauma was always dicey to predict, Sherlock knew, because everyone reacted differently, albeit within their usual reaction structures. With John, it was always about feeling useful, able to help, able to support, and without that ability to act on something in a positive way, after two consecutive potentially fatal events, he'd been floundering under the stress. 

"Distract, yes, disturb, no."

With that knowledge, in retrospect, disappearing after his faked death had possibly tormented John in the worst possible way. He'd taken all that ability to help out of the equation and the ability to act and that was worse than the possible peril. Possibly it was a little late to be realising that

"Of course not," John replied getting out marmite for his toast. "I need to say thanks for...well, pointing it out. Not sure how but it seems to have done some good. No doubt Dr Thompson would be horrified but.." 

Sherlock stood up to snag some of the tea John was making, which was the extent of effort he was going to put out for the day unless something more interesting came his way. He was tempted to go see what his network had or hadn't come up with by way of general information in the area, which might follow tea. "Given his unwillingness to submit to standard psychiatric medication, Sebastian's particular breed of self medication seems far more effective than alcoholism or drugs. You and the occasional cigarette as a self-soothing behaviour. It's functionally tame."

"Yeah well, you are a bit prone to medicating with cigarettes under stress," John pointed out easily. "Although, I don't think you use me as a form of medication." 

"Conductor of light," Sherlock murmured, watching John's eyes track the room. He was relaxed again, the movement of his eyes slower and less darting as he poured a cup that Sherlock stole. "There hasn't been a truly interesting case since the woman who organised for her own daughter to be kidnapped. You remember, the fellow that Sebastian snuffed out, whose state of existence you ironically dismissed." Because John wasn't stupid, he was just blatantly wilful about it in a stupid way.

"It seems like a long time ago, but only a couple of weeks back," John said thoughtfully. "I would have thought you would have been off creating havoc by now." 

It wasn't the same without John there to create havoc with. He prided himself on being self sufficient in the extreme but...it wasn't the same. If it had been he would have stayed dead. Being dead was easier and free-er in so many ways, but missed the added boost of a conductor. It was hard to go back to the old way after he'd experienced working with John. 

Instead, he reached for the teacup, and took a sip, wandering to steal toast straight out of the toaster. "No interesting cases. My current mental obsession is the human mind's amazing ability to build up blind spots."

"And I suppose there is some pointed lesson in that," John commented, not even pausing when it came to putting more toast on. That was it, that was normal to him. "Go on then, I'm sure you are dying to tell me." 

"I've been waiting for you to realise, but, of course, you haven't. The last case, and the missing suspect, whose body has actually washed up on the river by now, because one shouldn't spend the merchandise. Committed roughly the same crimes Sebastian did -- kidnapping a child, holding it hostage in a strange location, poisoning it with mercury painted onto chocolate wrappers, no, scratch that last one, that's all your boy's -- and yet you were quite firm that it was good riddance to bad rubbish. I wasn't entirely sure you were following the parallels, given the stress of the intervening week. And then Sebastian's tidying off of Maybourne, I know, self defence and very *good* self defence. We all would have done the same thing." He took a bite of his toast.

John looked at him with that clenched jaw and hand twitch he did when he was trying to suppress something. "You seem to forget the Moriarty factor. I am fully aware of the things Seb has done thank you, as I am the things you have done and myself. You should count yourself lucky that I have a tendency towards forgiveness in the face of the impossible. Was there some point to that or are you just trying to turn me against him for fun?"

"No, there's no point in trying that. I find Sebastian quite entertaining. I'm much more fascinated by the logical flaws associated with that value judgement."

"We are dealing with emotions here and logic doesn't always come into it," John replied sitting down. "I still can't get my head around what's going on with us all. You say you like Seb but you say things to me that..." John faded off.

"That?" He drew it out, wanting John to say it.

"You sound jealous Sherlock," John said looking at him directly. "Not just your normal observations on lesser mortals but jealous. And I don't know why."

And somehow it was making him scared.

That wasn't one's usual reactions to expected jealousy. Sherlock took another bite of toast, watching John's expression flicker. "I'm accustomed to your company, and I've never been good at sharing it with your 'dates'. Sebastian is something different."

"Different? Why is he different?" John said and he seemed unable to bite into his toast because what he was asking was apparently very important to him.

"Well, you've managed a long term relationship with him, which is obviously serious. I'm unsure what about him activated your latent bisexuality, but sexual attraction is like that, so I'm not actually asking for you to elaborate for me. When he went missing, you started to limp again. A psychosomatic injury which you have no control over, but are well aware of, as aware of as you are that I am a high functioning sociopath and that your boyfriend there is no boy scout despite his predilection to killing animals."

"You're nowhere near as much of a sociopath as you seem to believe," John said taking a bite of toast. "Otherwise you would have let me be shot in the head."

"Self interest," Sherlock offered. "I enjoy your company. Cases aren't the same without you."

John frowned a little. "So you do want me but...not in the way Seb wants me?" he asked slowly.

He cocked an eyebrow at John, watching the slow nod. "I suppose so, yes."

"What do you want from me?" John asked in a steady voice. The toast was still in his hand uneaten, the butter melted into the bread completely.

"What I already have. And possibly your piece of toast if you're not going to eat it. I wouldn't... I don't actually have a sexual attraction to you, John." Or at all, really, though Irene was fascinating, but he still had no urge to act.

"So you want the platonic bromance style relationship.." God, he hated it when John used air quotes, it sucked all of the intelligence out of the room. Possibly the street. "...without disturbing my relationship with Seb?"

"Yes." He finished off his piece of toast, hovering close to John. "That... would be my preferred option, yes."

"Okay." John took a bite of his cold toast. He looked like he had suddenly developed a headache and he half laughed and shook his head. "Okay then. I never wanted to choose between you both."

"You slow the whole process down when you're limping," Sherlock noted, glancing down at John's leg. "And while I've studied the human body and its musculature precisely, I suspect the sex would be disappointing for all of us."

John rolled his eyes a little and laughed again. "Probably...All I've got to do now is stop Seb from being killed through working for your brother."

"A harder challenge." Sherlock's mouth quirked. That was a challenge, because how to aid without accidentally emasculating the man? "What are you considering? I know you've begun considering two, possibly three flawed plans."

"I don't know exactly. You suggested he could work with us?" John asked tentatively. "Among other things...but you and I both know, this situation is going to go sour."

"It's a simple matter of time, he's far too high profile to continue working in a safe manner. Maybourne was the first -- someone else will try, or a reporter will figure it out, and he'll end up behind bars. This is an opportunity." Sherlock leaned back against the counter. "You realize, of course, that what you did was just... giving him a repositioning of outlook. He's going to be problematic for some time. I believe if you were just to point him in Mycroft's direction with an idea of closing up or transferring all operations but defense contracting, and working as some... contractor. For those sorts of things."

"Seb would have to choose it himself," John replied firmly. "I can't force him to make a decision."

"You could mention it," Sherlock suggested slyly. "And just leave it there for him to use as an option." And Sebastian would do it, or some modification of it that was appropriate for his situation.

"That I can do," John admitted. "Maybe later. Can't do everything at once."

"No, but you should put another piece of toast in." He leaned over to snag a piece of bread and drop it in the toaster, almost helpfully. He supposed it was for the better that he didn't feel any siren call to ruin what he had with John. Still, he also wasn't going to leave the room or flee the flat if their sexual escapades carried on. The sounds alone had been. Rather informative.

"Yeah, as you stole my other one," John said. "I'll talk to Greg about cases once we are settled and catch up on the blogging. That tends to bring cases in.”

"Excellent. In the meantime, I'm going to start an experiment on types of arson-based ash, remaining chemical and DNA compositions of. Starting with bleached fabric. That should keep me mildly occupied while you hunt and peck type." He wasn't, after all, at all good at garnering the positive sort of media that John did.

"I've gotten better at it," John said. "Try not to strip the wallpaper this time. " He buttered the next lot of toast and put it on a plate. "Just taking this upstairs..."

Of course he was. He was surprised at the stamina, more than anything. Of course, it was possible they weren't going at it *all* the time, but still. Once in a lifetime seemed quite enough for Sherlock, and they were carrying on at least once a day as well as making up for lost time to re-even their once a day average. Still, sex drive alone had probably helped Moran survive in Moriarty's employ.

That was an interesting train of research he'd have to work sometime, Sherlock decided as he sipped his tea. The chemical-based reactions that occurred between two mating loons.

* * *

Apparently Becks was coming round, no matter what either of them said. John had tried to say politely that Seb needed a bit more time, just to get himself together a little more. But Becks said she needed to see him, needed to check he wasn't just fobbing her off because she had been going crazy about it all, and in theory she would be going to work now that she had gotten over her homicidal urges towards Mycroft. Which John generally considered very admirable, because he'd had enough of those urges himself. It was tempting to give in to them just from short exposures to the man, never mind having to come into contact with him in a working environment. The only boon there had to be that he was hardly ever at the actual office, but instead at his club, deep in thought.

Coffee it was and John had even done a bit of baking much to Sherlock's amusement - although he ate the biscuits rapidly enough, criticism included for free. Seb had moved out of living solely in the bedroom, and was resuming his usual habits in the living room, of his own accord, which John was taking as a good sign. There were work things that, well, they all needed to deal with but weren't tackling directly, though Seb had gotten a package delivered by one of his couriers that he'd squirreled off almost immediately.

"I'm sure this is going to be lovely. At least she called ahead?" Seb was sprawled on half of the sofa, flicking through messages in his phone. He'd re-graduated to clothes, even if it was jeans and a well-worn military exercise t-shirt.

"Small mercies," Sherlock said, holding his hand out for a refill of coffee.

"I should cut you off," John threatened. "Why am I the one baking?"

"I'm not entirely sure when there is a perfectly serviceable coffee shop where you can buy biscuits and cake literally a step outside our front door."

John refilled the coffee pot, and smiled a little. "I'm trying to make an effort, otherwise Becks will take us to pieces."

"Oh, it's too late for that. You might as well set out a half eaten pack of jammy dodgers and two day old coffee." Seb tilted his head slightly, still looking at his phone, and then started to stand up. The year before he'd patched in a motion sensor just at the door that sent a text to his phone when he was within a certain proximity to it. Usually his checking for alerts was pretty surreptitious, but the general extra alertness was... still there. With good reason, John knew. "She's at the door."

"I'll get it then," John said getting up. It was easier to do when his leg was not killing him. It had all but faded to a slight limp at the moment. He opened, the door and plastered on a pleasant smile. "Hello Becks... come on up."

"I'm surprised I didn't see you all running out the back door." Her own smile was tightly plastered in place, and she leaned in to briefly embrace him, not quite going up the stairs to the flat yet. "How is he, really?"

"Better than he was a few days ago," John said. "I think he rattled himself this time." Or maybe as Sherlock surmised he finally had something to fear losing.

"A few days ago he'd been out of the hospital less than a day and he'd almost gotten kidnapped *again*. I heard a gunshot when he dropped his phone. I know I heard a gunshot." She stayed herded close to John, as if that would keep Seb or Sherlock from hearing down the stairs. "I can't believe he even left the flat after, you sounded so shaken when you finally found him again..."

"Well, I was. Losing track of him even for a bit was... nerve wracking. He was meant to text me to be picked up, not set off on his own." His heart had nearly stopped when he'd been racing to find him.

Finding him tucked up against a skip, bloody and half disoriented hadn't been pleasant. Getting him home, getting rid of the evidence, Seb had almost been worse after that had happened than he'd been after his week in captivity. It was worse, too, to have Rebecca watching him intently, though John knew she couldn't pick up his memories and call them out of thin air like Sherlock could and would, without hesitating if the urge struck. "That's what Sebastian does. But he's been resting?"

"Pretty much. He's only just migrated to the living room couch," John said as he opened the door into the flat.

No one had moved from where he'd left them -- Sherlock was still sitting in his chair looking both restless and thoughtful, while Seb was standing upright by the kitchen door, loitering there with a cup of coffee in hand. "Hello, Becks."

"Seb... you..." Becks pushed past him, and John tried to imagine how he had ever considered her to be cold and restrained when they first met. 

"Mind his ribs," John cautioned pouring the coffee and putting it out on the table

"Oof, yeah, I've got a broken floating one that's driving me crazy." Seb wrapped his free arm around her, clutching tightly. And he really was a sight, compared to how Seb usually looked, but John adjusted quickly, preferring the fact that Seb was _alive_. And now, well bandaged and patched. The graze from the gunshot wound was still livid, but healing with no signs of infection at all. 

"You have _got_ to stop doing this," Becks remonstrated almost fiercely and he had to agree. He did want Seb to stop, to be at least a little safer.

There just had to be a way to do it without making Seb into someone else. The worst part was that John knew if he asked, asked and meant it, Seb would stop. For him. "Yeah, well, it wasn't exactly a choice."

"You are doing okay? I mean, recovery wise - you should have let me know you had been released before this," Becks fussed over him. John took the moment to offer her and Seb both coffee.

It gave Seb the opportunity to pull away a little, clutching his coffee cup like it was a lifeline. "I'm all right. John's kept a good eye on everything." And please no smart comments on that from Sherlock, but that was more like asking for a miracle 

Sherlock snorted a little. "And apparently you visiting has been sufficient motivation for John to bake. He must be trying to impress."

"Yeah well, we don't annoy Becks," John added even as she stepped away, taking the coffee but still studying her brother. "What did you do to get suspended anyway?"

"Called Mycroft a cold hearted manipulative fucker," Becks said and John nearly spat his coffee out in a snort.

“But that's because you both saw it coming," Sherlock pointed out, gesturing between the siblings. "Sebastian knew he was being set up, and you knew he was being set up as well, and neither of you could say a word about it."

"... You're like the fucking anti-spy," Seb sighed, sipping his coffee and circling around to stand closer to John. "How--"

"The quality of the roast your sister served at dinner." 

"The quality of the roast?" John asked. "What has that got to do with anything?" He was still at a loss as how that warned Sherlock. He knew that Becks had said something to Seb but...how did Sherlock know?

"It was an above average cut of meat, and Rebecca is well off but sensible. She wasn't attempting to impress me, and there's certainly no sense in impressing the two of you, Sebastian eats crisps that fall between the sofa cushions, and you're just as bad, which made me think of last meals. It's a subconscious choice, made in subconscious fear, but you knew what Mycroft was planning in a broad strokes manner, didn't you?" Sherlock offered, looking up at Rebecca.

"You are a complete bastard." There was a tightness in her hand. John could see that she was barely restraining herself from throwing coffee at him.

"Sebastian knew as well, but he's accustomed to sociopaths," Sherlock carried on.

"You included. Could you ratchet it back for ten fucking minutes?" Sebastian asked, leaning his shoulder against John's. "Christ. Yes, you're brilliant. We all know it."

"And apparently being brilliant and an asshole runs in the family," Becks smiled at Sherlock. "The only difference is that you don't pay my salary so I can say what I want."

"Okay, look, we're here for coffee, okay?" John said hastily. 

"Saying 'okay' twice in a sentence doesn't make it any more likely to be true." Sherlock crossed his legs loosely, smirking as he said it. 

"If I shove a biscuit in your mouth, will you stop talking?" Sebastian asked, pulling away a little to grab for a biscuit half threateningly.

"Now that I'd like to see." John said it almost without thinking, because that was a dangerous thing to say around Seb.

He couldn't even see Seb's face, but he could almost see the eyebrow raise of 'challenge accepted' and Sherlock had seen it for sure because he was starting out of his chair while Seb advanced quickly on him with a biscuit in hand. These things never took much time, but it still seemed to unfurl in slow motion for John as Seb cornered Sherlock with the biscuit raised high and threatening.

And then broke down laughing.

"For god’s sake!" Becks said indulgently, even as John had to try and stop from chuckling. 

"Threatened by a biscuit...give me my violin, I must compose traumatised music," Sherlock said loftily.

Seb took a step backwards, more of a stagger, still laughing in that halfway bent over, runaway noise away, while he shook his head and took a bite of the biscuit. "The look on your faces, oh god, priceless, fucking priceless..."

"I live with this...." John said despairingly. "This is... yeah." It was just as ludicrous as it seemed.

Becks shook her head. "Well I see your sense of humour is the same as ever."

It took Seb a few moments, and then he straightened up, holding at his rib, and wiping the corners of his eyes with the back of his hands. "My sense of humour didn't go anywhere," he reassured, wandering back towards John and the sofa.

John raised his eyebrows in invitation, while Sherlock made a vague noise of distaste. "Oh good lord, is everything about sex with you two?"

Becks perched at the edge of John's chair, watching Seb as he sat down beside John, right leg pressing comfortably against John's left. "Oh, come on. Just because it isn't for you, don't hold it against me."

"No, that's my job," John said slipping an arm around him. "So Becks, how much grovelling does Seb have to do to get back in your good graces."

"Mmm, a lot," she replied looking at them both.

Seb exhaled, taking a sip of his coffee as he leaned back against John's arm. "I didn't do it on purpose."

"I know," Becks said looking at him. "But you know, you're as settled as I've ever seen you and...you’ve got something here Seb." She gestured to include Sherlock and himself, while John stroked Seb's arm absently.

He felt Seb's muscles move a little, settling as he nodded to his sister's words. "I know. Believe me, I know. I had a... very long, very bad week, and then... Well, Maybourne." He shrugged his shoulders. "But who'll try next?"

"Maybe you could, you know, shift tacks a little," John said cautiously. "You are pretty high profile to be doing what you are doing."

"Sitting duck," Sherlock added with a faint smirk.

Seb's jaw shifted to one side, a familiar gesture, before he offered, "I really don't think I can do it anymore."

Oh god, that was a relief. John hadn't been aware he had been holding his breath but he obviously had been. "You can do something else... Sherlock said before we could use someone of your skills."

“Breaking down doors, suspect intimidation, your height alone will scare people into talking, or at least distract them while I get to the heart of the matter. I've seen your power points and your reports. You're not entirely without brains."

Seb took another sip of coffee. "Do you feel the love? I really feel the love right now."

"That's more than I got in years," John said wryly. 

"Look, I know you are never going to be entirely free of mortal peril, none of you," Becks said. "But... there are odds of survival and I'd like my brother to have the best he can."

"I'm sort of adverse to dying the way I just almost did, again." He shrugged, grimacing a little in the way that said rib, not back, to John. "I'll see what I can manage, but I'm not sure what else I can say, Becks."

"Well, that's more than I thought I would get out of you." She looked faintly surprised as she did so.

"Maybe you can do some more writing again," John said. It got him a slightly un-enthused but thoughtful look from Seb, which was better than 'no'. There was a lot Seb could write -- Afghanistan, staff stuff, hell, thrillers, he could write more books on hunting because he'd already penned two and while it was a niche, it was a niche he was rather good at describing vividly and expertly. Hunting porn, with lushly described landscapes and animals that seemed liable to jump out from the pages until they were killed. Then all they'd have to worry about was PETA and Greenpeace.

"Maybe." He leaned his head back, looking up at the ceiling for a moment. "I'll come up with something. It's all just sort of collided together, I can't do it anymore. Sherlock being back has made my profile worse than ever, I can't. I can't." He was still catching when he got too close to the topic, sharp avoidance. Taking Seb down hadn't stopped that, but it had stopped the wound up tension, the numbness, at least according to Seb, and his self reports were pretty reliable. The best way to stop the catching was distraction, so John squeezed his shoulder ."Yeah."

"You don't have to," John said. "Pass it over, do freelance jobs for Mycroft if you want, things that fit with your higher profile. Rescue hostages, what we did before...that sort of thing." Things that were using his skills for the benefit of all. That was the difference with Seb. Seb was extremely competent but had done as directed.

"It's not as easy as that. If I don't unwind this right, the whole... it all collapses. I keep a lot of balls in the air at one time, and if the empire, such as it is, collapses, there's a lot that could go *wrong*. Never mind that I have to handle my deal with your brother." He glanced at Sherlock, and Sherlock was at once the problem and the solution. A couple of hours with full access to all of Seb's information, and he'd not only sate his natural curiosity but work out the straightest path between two points, damn the nuances.

"Sherlock would help," John said checking with the other man with a glance. He could read the assent in him easy enough, through a gleam in his eye. 

"It's not like you'll be revealing too much. I did go through your phone before when you were having time out," Sherlock said. "Answered a few texts for you. No one noticed." 

Sebastian groaned quietly. "I'm glad the army disabused me of any illusions of personal privacy. I'd wondered, but I also put that down to painkillers. Fantastic."

"I would feel much happier if you could," Becks said. John was glad she could say it because he didn't want to sound pushy by saying it. "The kids are getting used to having Uncle Seb and Uncle John around. And Louise is obsessed by Sherlock." 

"Her dad's a detective, too," Seb pointed out, a weak-sounding protest even to John's ears. Seb had settled and was just holding onto his coffee cup, looking as close to relaxed as John had expected of him with company in the living room. 

"Yes, but one's own parents aren't allowed to be 'cool'," Sherlock drawled, shifting from his sprawl just to lean forward and snag another biscuit.

"I'm struggling with the concept of you being cool," John said smirking a little at him. "Deerstalker hat and all.."

Becks smiled as well. "I'll have to get Louise one."

"She'll start spying on the neighbours and end up being the next Kitty Riley instead." Complete with her own contract as a commentator with some American news corporation. Of course, Seb had only said it to wind Sherlock up. If it wasn't so funny, and if there wasn't a playful undercurrent, John would've been concerned.

"I think a consulting detective would be a better career than an investigative reporter," Becks replied. "I can't exactly tell my kids not to idolise the people who saved the royal family and the government."

"It loses some of the gloss when you know the truth," Seb snorted. "So. How've you been? What've I missed?" Not much time, just a couple of weeks.

"Well, let's see, mainly seeing what I could dig up when John told me that you were missing," Becks said. "And pissing off Mycroft. Then worrying myself sick... You know par for the course. Surprisingly there were no other major crises at the time."

“That's shocking." For John, too, because it had seemed like the whole world had moved on quickly, like it didn't matter. "Hmm."

"If it makes a difference, John was worried from the first night you didn't come home," Sherlock said absently. "He started limping almost immediately. He didn't seem to connect the dots though." He gave a 'what can you do?' gesture and John grimaced.

"What's your point?" he asked. Seb was quiet, leg pressing just faintly against John's.

"My point is that you manifest emotional trauma through your leg. You limped when I was dead. You limped as soon as Sebastian went missing." Sherlock sounded about to go on, and Seb shook his head.

"Hey. Stop."

John realised he was obviously looking grim and he could see Sherlock bristling up to challenge him. "Okay, I manifest my personal need for therapy through my leg. It's not like it's news to anyone," John said. But maybe it was news to Seb, and maybe Sherlock was behaving badly to let slip something he didn't even think to tell Seb.

Seb glanced at Rebecca, who was watching them all quietly. "Well, it might be news to a couple of people, but I'm just generally polite enough to not mention it."

"I could point out the patch on your jaw where your beard will never grow back because you rub it when you're nervous," Sherlock offered.

"Ah, _there_ we go. Who wants a cup of coffee with a sedative in it?" Seb offered.

"I do," John said a bit morosely. "They snipe at each other a lot," he said with a quirk of a smile at Becks. 

"Yeah I can see that. You really were on your best behaviour when you came over," she replied.

Seb took another sip of his coffee, and shifted, slipping one hand to rest against John's side, fingers stretching. "Extremely. It's all right, though, I'm sort of pre-trained for it."

“I want you to come over soon," Becks offered again. "All of you. A barbeque maybe. You were really good at setting fire to meat before."

"...Seb?" John didn't want to say yes unless Seb was up for it.

He could feel Seb's fingers twitch a little, and it was the lack of an answer that was really the answer. "Suppose I could. Next weekend?" Another week away.

"I don't think we have anything in the diary," John said.

"How terribly domestic," Sherlock said.

"That's a yes," John interpreted.

"He enjoys showing off for small children," Seb teased, stretching his fingers again to press them against John's back in a languid way.

"Mmm, I was going to say same mental maturity," John commented, just to see Sherlock splutter. 

Splutter right on cue, and Seb grinned, slouching a little more. "Ba dum tish."

"Please. You'll be sad when the kids don't want to play in the back yard," Sherlock sneered. "Mind, John'll still go play in the grass with you."

"Mmm, anytime," John leered at Seb.

"Argh, okay, I only need to know the details on my terms." Becks covered one eye with her hand.

The leering was the fun part, though. There was a lot of careful balancing going on. "Oh, come on. I'm all busted up and I'm allowed to--"

"Oh, please, you could be literally half dead and you'd be gagging for it." Sherlock had barely finished talking, when Seb leaned away from John to throw a coaster at him. 

"Can we please stop discussing my sex life in front of my sister?"

"Everyone knows I find out about it later," she said eating another biscuit. "These are pretty good."

"Thank you," John said. "There is no end to my skills...apparently."

"There's pigeon in it," Seb suggested, finishing off his coffee cup again. Sherlock laughed quietly, more of a low smug sound, but. "I snuck it in when John wasn't looking." It felt good to be happy. To be alive, and to know that everyone who mattered to him was safe. All he wanted, as he ate his pigeon flavoured biscuit, was to keep them that way. That couldn't be too much to ask could it?

* * *

He took his time the second time. Not that he was ready when it came to it, but he'd at least taken his time, managed to gather up the pieces into something less resembling a messy pile and much closer to a person. A person who was angry, because Maybourne had actually done a fantastic job of getting a chisel out and chipping away, probably the best he'd ever experienced.

Good enough that it wasn't something he ever wanted to experience again. And Sherlock could laugh all the hell he wanted, but yeah, Seb just wanted to lay out on the grass with John. And he wanted to do it for *years*. Only there wasn't going to be years if he kept carrying on the way he was. So, there'd been a plan, a general outline of things ginned up between the three of them before Seb went to deal with Sheppard, another loose end.

A loose end who was leaving the country, and fuck, that felt enough like the favour Seb owed the man that he'd let him get away, give him his closeout time. It was a shame he wasn't British, because he would've made an excellent replacement. That was the only side of the idea none of them had worked out, what Mycroft's reaction would be. After all, the deal had always been that Seb got to stay out of prison as long as he did what Mycroft told him. John was so fucking optimistic it would work out just fine, and Seb was... less so.

He walked into the Diogenes club again, made his way through the silent song and dance that was the place. Mycroft hadn't been waiting for him, he'd been perched silent in a chair with his phone and his newspaper in the main room

It was a while before they were actually sat down together and Mycroft immediately steepled his fingers. "It would appear that you want to see me," he said finally. "I assume this is not a further debriefing." 

"That's correct." Seb pitched his voice quiet, reaching for a relaxation he wasn't feeling as he watched the elder Holmes. "I'm going to have to renege on our deal. I can't do the job anymore."

"I see." Mycroft looked unsurprised. "I am very disappointed of course. Your contribution over the last few years has been invaluable to my department. Did we not agree that this was going to be in lieu of criminal charges?" 

And there was the stick part of the bargain, rather than the carrot. Seb twitched an eyebrow at the man, at the way his voice pitched just... just so when he said that. It made Seb's wrists itch. "I'm aware of that fact. Yet I'm in a position where I can no longer effectively run the empire. I'm too high profile in our circles, and your brother's return has made it worse. I can either slowly disengage from the empire of my own volition, or something is going to happen again and it's going to come down in a quick wreck." He was afraid that next someone would go after the obvious target -- John -- and if they did, if. If. 

He pressed his tongue against his teeth for a moment, jaw tight. It just wasn't a risk he was willing to take, and for all John was capable of taking care of himself, so was Seb. There was a point where even competence didn't win out against a well prepared enemy. There was a point when competence wasn't enough."I'd like to continue working those particular one man jobs you have."

"And the consequences of a network like yours without an adequate successor would be ...catastrophic," Mycroft said. Sherlock had pointed out that one of his lieutenants, not the ill-fated Blakesmore, was a Mycroft infiltrator. Apparently he noticed certain phraseology that was his brothers in his communications that possibly only he would know. Train him up, put him in place and that was that argument dealt with. It had been the deal; Mycroft’s men had to make it through the organization on their own merits, and he was good enough. 

"Except, I do have an *adequate* successor. I don't know what he'll think of it once he's handling all of the work, but that's between you and your man Fredericks, sir." He gave Mycroft a half a smile as he said that. "So, six months of transition should be good enough for him. I'll keep the defense contracting business, of course, it's the perfect cover for anything else you'd have me do." And it was legally in his name, one of the few things that the public at large knew about after their little infiltration fiasco.

"Of course." Mycroft looked a little discomfited at him bringing up Fredericks so casually and he had to resist a smirk. "How will you approach the transition with your criminal colleagues?" 

"As retirement. I'll be around for advice and the odd thing, but rumours of what happened are already circulating. I don't have to do much more than casually agree at this point, and the story writes itself." He'd make a showing at another couple of evenings, with John in tow. Might even actually start seeing his therapist again, which would make everything better and worse and raw, right there, all at the same time. "And given that it's not really a story, it won't be hard to play my part."

"Then it would appear that I have no option but to accept your resignation from this existing role. You wish to be considered for specific jobs. Anti-terrorist jobs and so forth?" Mycroft said it with barely a ripple in his calm. 

"And anything else you require a _very_ small team to handle." There was more to say, he knew there was, but the words dammed up in his throat, so he watched Mycroft instead. He'd simply had a shift of priorities, and he could do the job just fine until the next pothole. Then, he wasn't sure what would happen. The other stuff, the supposed black-ops work was better than easy, it was a _joy_. It was the stuff he'd always loved doing best, small pointed pieces where he could drill down, rather than having to keep everything up in the air and be at every stupid bugger's beck and call twenty four seven.

"It is always a danger when a man finds a family and settles down, that they will lose their taste for the edgy side of life, but I note your interest in that side of things. You will not be protected by the government should any of your misdemeanors return to haunt you however," Mycroft said just as Sherlock said he would. "Mind you, I am surprised that you and my brother are tolerating each other, let along co-habiting."

It wasn't as if he would've been protected by the government for those misdemeanours in the first place. After all, he'd been taken on board as the perfect living breathing scapegoat, so the threat carried no weight at all. And what did he say about Sherlock? Yeah, he was behaving for John's sake, but they'd established lines and it wasn't so bad, really. It was almost fun quite often but Sherlock had a spark of devilry he could appreciate. "But you see, I came pre-trained for dealing with utter wankers. Your brother's a piece of cake after Jim."

"True. Well I suppose I should have anticipated Dr. Watson's catalytic effect on you as it had been on Sherlock. For an unremarkable man in many ways, he does have a tendency to be transformative," Mycroft mused.

So many reasons to lean forward and snap Mycroft's neck for that sentence, but Seb looked sideways to the wall -- very reassuring, boring plain wall -- and dredged up something more appropriate. "There's nothing unremarkable about John, Mr. Holmes. If that's all...?" There were a thousand other things he needed to take care of when he left Diogenes.

"I will arrange things my end," Mycroft said. "And tell my brother to stop meddling as well. I would not waste too much time in setting this in motion."

"Got no pull over your brother, but I'll pass it on." He stood up, gave Mycroft half a nod, and saw himself out of the club.

It was a relief -- it wasn't like the work was over, no there was plenty to be done, but it was at least one less thing to worry about. And if Mycroft was planning on killing him for it, well. Not much to do but handle that as things went, but his personal life stood as pretty solid not going to talk about the government involvement in organized crime blackmail.

The network would hold as long as there was a centre, he just had to pass it on. It did seem a little too easy somehow - either Mycroft had expected it from supposition, or someone had warned him. Either way he didn't care. He'd never felt he needed out before.

Now he did. Now he wanted to not have something happen to John, he wanted to be *around* to keep enjoying the fruits of all of his work. It was really bloody hard to enjoy life if you were dead, and Seb had come too close for no payoff in too many days. He hadn't been fighting *for* or trying to get anything, he'd just been caught out. It hadn't even been a mission, except to survive.

Well, he was going to see that mission through.

He took his time on the drive home.

It struck him that Sherlock had been very helpful for him. Of course it had involved a lot of general insults but he was used to that. Moriarty was not one to build self-esteem with. He supposed that this day was inevitable from the moment he stayed with John, because little by little self esteem had started to build. It figured that one day it'd get big enough that he could define out what he enjoyed doing and what he didn't enjoy doing, and make a decision accordingly. Ella would be proud of his self-awareness. 

He parked the car, and wandered around the block towards the flat. John was at the hospital, in for surgery. Sometimes, Seb wondered what sort of drug deal he'd worked to not be on full time, but. It seemed Sherlock was the one waiting for him, lying out on the couch in what John fondly called his pretentious thinking posture.

"I take it my brother saw reason from the swiftness of your return?"

"Only threatened me with jail once. That's a new record," Seb said casually, shutting the door behind himself and shrugging out of his last good coat. Three good coats seemed like enough, until you lose two in two separate bloody incidents. He still hadn't brought himself around to going shopping for replacements. It didn't feel comfortable, going out to the nicer parts of town and going shopping. It wasn't well trod ground. "Anything interesting?"

"Not really. I am waiting for John to begin blogging again. And of course, my involvement in getting you free of Mycroft was obviously so you would be the conduit through which interesting things will flow," Sherlock said.

"The other conduit," Seb corrected, shrugging his suit jacket off as well, before he started to roll up his shirt sleeves. He was still bandaged up, but mostly to keep the scabs from pulling and scarring him up to the point where he looked like *more* of a failed suicide attempt than his previous adventures in handcuffs had left him. "I'd really enjoy another one like Peru."

"Peru... which particular venture in Peru would that be?" Sherlock asked, implying he knew of several missions in Peru... which was actually true.

He lifted his eyebrows at the man, and instead answered with a circular gesture. "Any of them." He fished a cigarette out of his pants pocket, and his lighter, almost out of habit, and then hesitated and shoved it back into his pocket. "Well, except the one with the drug cartel. The first one, not the second. The second was fun. I don't suppose there's tea on?"

"No." Sherlock lay there a little apathetically. Moriarty had a tendency to do the same sometimes when the world was not being entertaining. "Mines white with one sugar."

"Great. You can get up off the sofa." He rubbed at the back of his neck, wandering into the kitchen. It was good to go outside, too, even if it had just been a familiar route .

"Can't. Thinking," Sherlock said diffidently. It really was amazing how many similar patterns he had to Jim.

Seb snorted, pulling mugs down from the shelf. "You going to share about what?" John had mentioned in passing that Sherlock had had a drugs problem, and that would've been too much similarity if he hadn't gotten it under control. It left Seb wondering how much of that had been environmental for Jim.

"You. John. Mycroft." Sherlock looked at him. "I have to be sure I have not miscalculated in any way."

"Where's John factor in?" He put the kettle on, rattling around for teabags. White and sweet, drinking tea like a small child. 

"Where does he usually factor in? He is at the heart of things," Sherlock said still resting with his fingers steepled.

"Yes, but I was looking for a less esoteric answer." And unlike Jim, he was less likely to scream at Seb. He got the milk out, and the sugar.

Sherlock shrugged. "John wants you, therefore to keep John I must keep you too. It is not a complex calculation, but your propensity for near death disturbs my reasoning."

"It's not a propensity. Anyway, quitting the empire cuts down on my exposure to daily violence." He'd end up going soft, if that wasn't already counted as going soft. He'd have to add more running to his daily routine. "That should cut down on the black eyes and hairline fractures."

"Will they let you quit?" Sherlock asked. "That is what I am contemplating. They like the security having you there has given them. Will you be able to walk away with their secrets?"

"I'll put on a couple of convincing shows at the weekly meeting. One to do tomorrow, I could start wrapping things up. The challenge is walking the line between true weakness and reasonably unstable as a viable reason to leave." He just needed to put on a damn good show, and that'd involve letting himself feel, which was a challenge.

"How much do your circle know of your relationship with John? Their opinion of it?" Sherlock said looking lost in thought.

"All of them. I've been open about my sexuality since I worked it out myself." He leaned against the doorjamb, waiting for the kettle to go off. "He's come to a few of the gatherings, didn't have any problems. If anyone wants to make a queer joke, I beat it into them years ago that they better do it out of earshot. John... fits in admirably. Generally, he plays good guy to my crime lord. It's come in handy a time or two."

"He is liked by the group then?" Sherlock asked. "If so, I believe if you take John with you and appear to lose control and have John intervene and appear to nearly go for him, they would not only believe your control has slipped but the reasoning for your retirement. It will not be seen as a power move."

"He's liked by the group," Seb agreed, backtracking into the kitchen as the kettle went off. Making tea was mechanical, easy. Working out where here was going to reliably pull that little act from was harder. He'd be out of sorts for days and he'd just wrestled his control back together. Having to do anything with that was hard.

"Then that would be a solution that provides them with the logical and emotional reasoning they will need. Announce your retirement looking calm, they will be looking for the catch. Go completely off the handle, and they will take you out because you cannot be trusted to remain stable and keep their secrets."

"Act naturally for myself and be *completely* believable," Seb deadpanned, pouring the tea and adding milk to Sherlock's as was completely inappropriate.

"We both know it won't have to be much of an act," Sherlock commented. "Don't we? John may have grounded you some but not enough to credit a miracle cure."

His hand got halfway to the edge of his jaw, and he stopped himself with a grimace, picking up the two mugs before heading back into the living room. "Not a miracle cure," Seb agreed. "I've got a good grip on myself at last, and I'd rather not let go of it right now unless I have to."

"That only ever works if you want to hold onto the 'myself' you've got a good grip on," Sherlock held his hand out for his sweet milky tea. "Still, John had his hands full grounding me. Two might be too much."

He handed the tea over, moved to perch on the edge of the sofa. "When was the last time you ever really let go emotionally?"

"I don't, because if I do.." Sherlock looked at him. "I become _him_."

Seb pressed his tongue just behind his teeth and grimaced before taking a sip of tea. "So you've tried, then."

"This is me trying," Sherlock said sipping his tea. "John...I knew John would stop me if lost control." He tilted his head a little. "He is a figurative restraint in that way."

"If you start doing that thing where your head goes side to side like an iguana, I promise to help provide some literal restraints as well," Seb murmured, leaning back a little to ease his back.

"Yes, well scarcely necessary," Sherlock replied. "That is all yours and John's. The effect it has is intriguing but, I am not particularly bothered."

"Then you're not just like Jim. He was all urges. Urges to tap-dance on people's bodies, urges for sex, no limits. You're just afraid you have the potential to be that bad." He took a sip. "Fear exists for a reason, and it's not all bad."

Sherlock was silent for a moment and then started speaking a low voice. "I don't fear it, I know it, before John, before Lestrade, I had occasionally been it. Life is incredibly dull sometimes when you think in the way that I do, the way Moriarty did. The urge is there, to splash colour into a drab existence in any way. I did before...I was volatile in the extreme. Mycroft could never pin me down, and I fear boredom most of all, because I cannot let the world become grey and red is a very easy colour to paint it with."

"But John matters to you. That's a difference right there. No one but the challenge ever... yeah. Jim didn't have that." He lifted his eyebrows and took another sip of tea. Jim had owned him, inside and out, but it hadn't ever been concern.

"He matters. I've only ever had one friend," Sherlock replied. "I told him that before I jumped. I stupidly thought... that he couldn't feel that strongly. Absence would protect him, my experience told me that much. I made a mistake."

Seb laughed, mug resting in both hands in his lap. "Yeah. He was dying by inches. Things got better, but he never got over you. A year later, I had this whole... well, it was a fiasco. He stopped and looked up at the roof on the way out of the hospital and just. Was gone. I thought he was going to walk out into traffic."

"I keep explaining it to John, but he seems unable to process it. I don't want to split you up. I don't want to have sex with John or you," Sherlock said. "But I want him in my life."

"So this current arrangement works for you? When things get back to normal, much as that word takes a beating around here." He took another slow swig of tea, and closed his eyes. "I've never been quite enough for anyone, so I'm not kicking a fuss about you being here. It's easier than watching John miss you. I'd rather he have everything he wants." Even if he was going to be a dick to Sherlock occasionally, Seb understood what sort of hornet's nest he was planning on taking a baseball bat to when he did it.

"Don't give me that self-pitying rubbish," Sherlock said. "I am more than enough for any one person, too much most people have said and yet I wouldn't be enough for John. People apparently have lovers and they still have to have friends. I've got the friends part sewn up, you've got the former as yours. John apparently has capacity for us both. That's not a failing, it's more of a superhuman feat of strength."

"I didn't call it a failing. It..." Seb leaned his head back, staring at the ceiling for a moment. There was a pen lodged over Sherlock's spot. Huh. "He needed you. You left him with this impossible hole in him."

"And you fixed that hole." Sherlock made an expression of revulsion. "This is ridiculously like a mutual appreciation society. I'm not going to play around with that. We're all broken individuals in the way that society classifies us, and apparent together we don't just patch the holes we become something remarkable. That I don't want to lose. John needs you to function as apparently he needs me. I need him to stop me self-destructing with my own brilliance, and therefore I need you. You need him to balance and ground you, therefore by default you need me. The last side of the triangle is the unexplored area -- whether we would need each other without John."

Seb snorted, glancing over to Sherlock from the pen in the ceiling. "How about we never find that out? I nearly lost him once when he took that bullet meant for Mycroft." When he'd screwed up and forgotten for once in his life to check for secondaries. And he never wanted to relive that again, heart-stopping fear knotting up in his chest even though the memory felt old and well-worn by then. It was a cascade effect, memory of near death setting off memory of near death, setting off memory. 

"Yes, well presumably we have some role in stopping his ridiculous unthinking heroics," Sherlock commented looking up at the pen in the ceiling. "He wasn't meant to do that. Mycroft is more than capable of looking after himself as he has the entire might of the government to jump in front of bullets for him, and doesn't need John playing hero."

"No one else would've done it. No one else was looking." Seb ran a hand over his face, leaning back in the sofa. "And it was someone in his own government doing it. So. But no, I don't want to have John that close to death again. And if I'd stayed in the business, it's just a matter of time before someone goes, gee, that's a bloody easy target. I'm sort of surprised Maybourne went for me and not John." It was bad enough that he kept casual tabs on John if he was running late for just that reason. 

"I'm sure he would have done given time," Sherlock replied. "But then we were running around London without a pattern on that case. At that point you were possibly more predictable than we were. I agree though, John is the target of choice. Perhaps Maybourne suffered from the delusion that your sexual orientation would make you easy to break."

Oh, that was a lovely thought and probably true. Amateurish of the man, if it was true, because most everyone would compromise themselves for a loved one where they might not do it for themselves. "The irony was that I was giving him the information he wanted, because it didn't actually matter. He just didn't believe it." 

"An idiot of course, but possessed of a level of cunning by all accounts," Sherlock mused. "Evidence shows it must have been an irrational bigotry of some sort otherwise he would not have gone back after you. Seriously, logic should have told him that someone who did not break after however many days was not incompetent."

"It was uncomfortably close," Seb murmured, hand lingering up to his forehead to brush the gash on his head that was still healing.

"Yes, dealing with you brain damaged had not been something I would relish," Sherlock replied. "It's entirely possible I would have had to... well. "

Well. "Oh, excellent. I take comfort in knowing that you and my sister would be vying for who could tidy me off first in that event." He stretched his legs out, and slouched comfortably, considering what to make for dinner. He could burn something in a pan, quick fry up, or throw together a curry. "Pillow, then, please. Plastic bags end up being a horrifying mess."

"I would expect the same," Sherlock said staring at the pen stuck in the ceiling. "Are you going to therapy or is John continuing his own brand?"

"I figured I could go first time tomorrow, get appropriately open-wounded to head off to the social tomorrow night." And John's own brand, which Seb appreciated. Honestly, sure they had a lot of sex but there was also a lot of just lying there talking, and feeling alive. Not that one cheapened the other. He did enjoy the feeling of John's skin under his fingers.

There was the difference. Jim had been like wrestling a tiger in a relationship. Powerful, dangerous, exhausting and unbalancing and John was easy. He just was and relationships were never that easy for him. Maybe that was why he felt something was wrong, because it had never been really right before.

"Interesting. Is John cooking tonight?"

"Nope, I am. You looking to put in an order?" He finished off his tea, lingering with the cup.

"Just debating whether it would be take out or not," Sherlock said, looking restless. "Bored. Bored."

Yeah, he looked ready to start twitching at any moment. Seb stood up. "C'mon. You can watch me throw dinner together and criticise that I'm doing it wrong."

"As far as entertainment goes, that is lacking," Sherlock replied. But he did move, as Seb was evidently more interesting that the pen in the ceiling.

* * *


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Once they’d started taking cases, there'd been all of three cases that interested Sherlock, and two of them he'd solved during the initial interview -- including a missing racehorse and a murder that Lestrade had brought Sherlock, sure that he'd be stumped. Within ten minutes, he had told Greg to where to pick the horse up, and who out of all of the interviews had killed the man.
> 
> The chemical industrial sabotage up to the north ended up being a much more interesting case for Sherlock.

There were times where John wished he didn't know the plan ahead of time.

He knew that Seb was supposed to be a little wound up, but seeing Seb actually like that, actually slip past his control was different than knowing it was part of the plan. It was a slow slipping, too, and it started with cigarettes in the back of the car as the driver took them there, along with Seb's arm draped over his shoulders.

He didn't want him to go too far, or slip too fast, so he tried to steady him with touches. It was so raw in him again that John could see how powerfully that night had acted upon Seb. He half wanted to steal the cigarettes, but not tonight. "You okay?"

"Yeah." He was lying, of course, from the way his eyelids dropped down and he looked at his knees, inhaling deeply from the cigarette.

John moved his hand to brush over the braided leather and metal cuff bracelet Seb was wearing. "I'm here, okay? Stay with me." He gently gripped his hand around his wrist.

"Mmm." He turned his wrist around, fingers stretching to curl around John's. "I'd be happier if I could manage this shit through my laptop and cell phone as well."

"Yeah, people like to see you," John said looking up at him, noting the tension around the mouth and eyes. "Maybe the therapy thing was pushing it."

"Definitely on the side of less helpful today." His jaw shifted, and he was reaching for a smile that didn't touch his eyes, quite. "You put up with a lot of shit."

"Generally from Sherlock," John agreed with a faint smile. "What can I say? I have a high shit tolerance, particularly for people that make me spiced meatball things." Which had been really good, and tasty -- the sort of thing that made you raid the fridge in the middle of the night.

"Good." Seb leaned into him a little, pressed a kiss just to the edge of his jaw, lingering. "We're almost there. Feels like it's been years, not weeks."

"Well, your life is changing." Seb did that when he needed reassurance, pushed space boundaries. Sometimes John wondered if he'd done that with Moriarty, and if it was his way of gauging general responses. Getting pushed away by Moriarty could carry a host of implications that didn't fit with John doing the same. "I want you to be happy. I'd say safe, but that's not the same as happy sometimes."

"Still, it'd be nice if they crossed over occasionally." He sat back, posture bolt upright as the vehicle started to coast to park.

"We'll work on it," John promised in a low voice. 

"Showtime." It was going to be an effort to stop it crossing from method acting into the real thing. He wasn't entirely sure Seb hadn't crossed over entirely, because all of his usual comfort tells were there -- smoking, the way he was lingering, the look in his eyes. John was just glad the faint tremors had stopped, that their time together had been good enough that he could hold onto it and remind himself that things were good without that added stress. The fact that it was so close between acting and reality meant that it was a good decision that Seb was making for himself.

Seb levered himself out of the car first, half a moment waiting for John to join him before he set off in his usual lead into the place, his bodyguard falling in as well. 

The normal crowd was there, already mingling and looking more than a little wary to John's eye. Irene was giving him an appraising look -- maybe she thought that he hadn't gone through with what he had been planning, but she looked a little disappointed. Fredericks, the accidental man of the hour, immediately moved in close towards Seb to stake out his attention. Mycroft had no doubt informed him that his cover was blown, but Seb looked not entirely interested in letting the man break his flow just then. He only waved him over once they were settled and drinks had been ordered.

"Colonel," Fredericks said. "You're looking better than some reports indicated. I wasn't sure if you would be here tonight." He glanced at John briefly, who just smiled a little at him.

"Whose reports?" Seb asked it with an unhappy edge to his voice, but his expression well schooled for the moment.

"The word gets around." Fredericks shrugged a little. "Filtering through the grapevine."

John glanced around and saw a couple of people duck and avoid his gaze. He knew exactly where the rumours had come from. Seb sat back on the couch, hand clenching tight to John's shoulder from where he had it casually draped. "Yeah? You know how rumours are. They change, they grow. I suspect there was some exaggeration. What can I help you with?"

"Cartel in Southern America. I've been approached by a man call Cavarro saying he's got a new pipeline and wants to give me first rush at the opportunity," Fredericks said. "Only from European contacts I've been running for you I've not got a whisper about the guy and that seems unusual."

John watched as Seb closed his eyes for a moment. "Christ. Cavarro's a government official, American. Drug enforcement agency. You're just making this whole thing hard on me, aren't you? Can you not be daft just for one night?"

"I'm not being fucking daft." His hackles were up, almost immediately, lines forming between his eyebrows. "I'm asking you before I do anything. I don't have access to that information, you do."

John slipped a hand around to the base of Seb's spine. That sometimes steadied him a little. Seb rubbed fingers at the edge of his jaw, inhaling on his cigarette. "You do, though. I'm planning on retiring from this, Fredericks. I need someone to hand this off to." He gave Fredericks a particularly meaningful look. 

"I'd manage just fine if I had all the information," Fredericks replied leaning in closer. "I've only got the European right now. I don't have the contacts in the States."

"I know that. But you also have eyes, and fucking ears," Seb said blandly, no heat at all. And contrary to that, John could feel the muscles in his back shivering with tension. "He approached you, so you talked to him. English or Spanish? Slow Spanish like the Columbian he pretends to be, but his cadence is wrong for Columbian, he uses some of the wrong words. You need to be able to recognise that whether you've got their info on hand or not, you need to be able to go, 'fuck, this is strange.' How do you think I got that information, and the European contacts, and any of the rest?" 

John didn't want to interrupt but he didn't want Seb to have a major blow out at the person who was scheduled to be his replacement. "Guess that's a lesson learned," he said easily, pressing his thumb into the tense muscles to refocus Seb's attention. "At least he didn't actually make a deal with him, he must have thought something was off."

"Jim would've been wearing you as a necktie by the morning." Seb ran a hand over his face, exhaling slowly. "Right. You do have some instincts, you just need to... follow them. I figure we'll take a few months, ease you into it."

"Okay, " Fredericks nodded. He had been handling the Europeans well enough and John thought he would do well if he managed to survive the initial hand over. He was just used to coming to someone for the final answers.

"I'm just going to go... talk to some of the others." John had been going to hang around longer before going off on a foray but Seb was not going to last long there tonight. Likelihood was the third or forth person who saw him was going to press the self-destruct button.

On themselves. All John needed to do was keep an eye on Seb and wait.

"All right. Fredericks, stay here. I know you know everyone, but let's make this something of a right seat ride."

Leaving John to go see what there was to find out. He wandered over toward Irene and the significant others, pace casual. "Evening ladies," he said smiling. "You are all looking stunning as usual."

Evangeline smiled, easily flattered as usual, but cunning about it as well. "And you look, well. Better than the Colonel, John. How is he? No one expected him here."

"You know Seb, he doesn't like to think that he's not indispensible," John said sitting down while beckoning for drinks all round. "He's a bit...Well, it was an ordeal, definitely."

"My brother got a hold of the police reports," Andy volunteered once she had her drink in hand. "I'm *real* surprised he came back this soon. Or at all."

Irene's mouth was a thin line, contemplative before she offered, "Well, John's quite good at seeing to the Colonel."

"I didn't want him to come back," John said. "You don't know what those bastards did to him but... I can’t make him do something without him wanting to do it."

Irene's expression seemed doubtful, and it always did on that particular topic. "That's up for debate, John, but if you insist," Irene drawled, smiling as she took a sip of her wine. "We're glad to see you back. And how's Sherlock?"

"Sherlock... is being surprisingly helpful," John replied. "I'm sure he has let you know that much at least.

"We tend to not discuss the Colonel when we talk, so no." She looked vaguely amused, but the group was too large for her to say anything she wanted to say. It was a relief for John -- he could just glance over occasionally, see how Seb was, watch the rest of the group of 'spouses' such as it was.

"I'm still amazed that... works," Beth said with a little shrug. "Good for you."

John shrugged. "Well, it seems to," he admitted. "So what have I missed? What's the rumours going around?"

Evangeline cleared her throat, and looked over towards where Seb sat. "Well, it's all about your fellow over there, that’s the big rumour right now. After he had the hit put out on all of those Americans except Sheppard... And the taxi driver that was one of the hit targets, just left there in a cab outside of Scotland Yard? They're still looking for who did it on the news."

"And 'police have no further leads at this time'," Andy added, tucking a strand of red hair behind her ear.

"I heard that Sheppard had disappeared as well," Irene said languidly. "Sebastian has not been idle in his recovery."

John shrugged a little. "They tried for him again. Measures were taken."

"I'm still amazed they got him once. But they also killed Blakemore..." Jeannie seemed to shudder. "And Robert was good at what he did."

"You missed the funeral," Beth added, "It was rather nice, but better to pay attention to the living than the dead."

"I was...trying to track Seb down at the time," John replied. "They were a heavily funded group, and a lot of resources they shouldn't have had." He kept the hints out there that it wasn't just a rival gang.

A rival gang shouldn't have taken Seb out, wouldn't have been able to, but he'd been right years ago -- he was easy enough to find if someone wanted to put the effort in, and easy enough to take down. "And now that most of them have been taken care of... what now?" Evangeline pressed.

"I don't know," John glanced over at Seb. "I really think he should have time off… They did things...well." Mysterious, he would allude to it ,though Irene probably could read it.

And as it was, John was trying to not think about it, because he still wasn't comfortable with it. He *was* comfortable with Seb's complete and utter trust in him, he wasn’t comfortable that Seb was willing to push himself further than was safe or sane and that he could reel himself back.

Uncomfortable silence held at their table. "Is he quitting?" Andy asked after a moment.

"I'm... not sure." John let hesitation sow the seed. "It's the first time I saw him reluctant to come back. I'll be honest, I think it's probably my fault. Too high profile and now Sherlock’s back, even higher."

"It's still funny to see the two of you show up in some news story and see that Sebastian as completely different than this one. It's funny to see someone we know in the news for reasons other than trial," Evangeline added. 

"Reluctant. Huh." Andy looked back towards Seb, and then John. "How does that work, though? Holmes solves crimes. We make them."

"Yeah, not actually sure. It is just working at the moment. And Sherlock helped me find Seb so..." John shrugged. "I want it to stay working."

He'd come home the night before to find Sherlock and Seb arguing, but without any real heat, with dinner made and better than edible, with Mrs. Hudson up there as well. It was almost a sibling sort of relationship, though not as fond as Seb was of Becks. That the two of them could be alone in the house for hours without anyone dying gave John a lot of hope that things could stay working. 

As long as they pulled the grand transition off. He glanced over to Seb, watching him lean forward while talking to a Russian, and then sit back again, lighting another cigarette slowly, eyes down while he talked. Trying to keep himself centred and focused from the looks of it. He was drinking just coke. Alcohol was a bit too much to risk just then.

He was doing okay for now. John had to be alert for the signs and when to move. He knew he might be risking something by getting in the middle of things but Sherlock was right. They would see it and not think of Seb as a possible sell out if the reason was there and oh-so-obvious.

"I hope he doesn't retire. It's been so much safer with the Colonel in control of things,” Beth said.

"There's been less instances of what happened to Blakemore. If you're doing what everyone knows you're doing, you worry less someone's going to kill you in the street," Andy agreed. Aloud, because John was there and they knew he had Sebastian's ear. Of course they wanted to voice their support to him.

"I just want him not being in the hands of bastards trying to break him," John said with some genuine vehemence. "Or kill him."

"A hazard of the job...like his previous profession," Irene pointed out.

But that had had a *purpose*. Being a soldier, serving in the military, there was a reason for it. The shit Maybourne had done had been shortsighted, amateurish, even if he'd had a huge weight of money and capacity behind him.

"Still, the military is..." Beth started to say, but they could all hear Seb's voice when it rose. Finally.

"You honestly expect me to say yes to a short stick deal like that, because, what, I go a couple of weeks without showing up here? Where the *fuck* do you get off?"

John looked around and could see it, there in Seb's eyes. Not that much play acting and the Russian, Andreyev was an idiot at the best of times. "Shit," he said getting up hastily.

He was fairly sure that he dodged around a couple of seating arrangements, and didn't trip on or knock over any furniture or anyone before coming in towards Seb's side. Quiet, no warning, because all parties were already standing up, and all he needed to do was get close enough to Seb.

John started speaking even as he reached out to touch Seb on the arm. "Hey, why don't you just sit.."

No time to process it, before Seb pivoted sharply and swung a fist hard, connecting with John's jaw. He'd been expecting it, so he'd managed to dodge it a little, and as soon as it was done Seb's facial expression unknotted. "Fuck! Fucking hell, John, what're you, you startled me, shit..." And he was moving in fast to steady John.

Even half dodged, he was seeing stars and staggering back, because Sherlock's punch was a tap compared to the iron bar of Seb's fist. "Umph, that..." He was meant to throw a bit of a strop, play the pissy boyfriend, but he was more stunned from the blow than he thought he'd be.

And maybe the whole acting part was unnecessary. He didn't think Seb was acting anything but perfectly, well, normal for him as he backed John to sit on the sofa, made him turn his head to look at his jaw, checked his eyes for pupil dilation. It left John wanting to ask Seb how many times he'd cracked someone in the jaw and *actually* concussed them that it was an immediate reaction. "I'm sorry, I wasn't, you're not supposed to come up on me like that, you know I fucking startle, oh Christ, I didn't mean to hit you..."

It'd certainly stopped the Russians' arguing.

He tried to focus himself because yeah, he was feeling a little like he was underwater or something. "I'm okay," he said thickly. "My fault..." and he winced saying that because it sounded like an abused spouse excuse. "I just need to go... get some fresh air."

"No, no, I'm not letting you out of my sight." Seb's jaw was grimly set, fingers lingering at the edge of John's jaw. He leaned back, and someone had passed him either water or a strong drink. "Just sit up and give it a minute. Drink this. I'm sorry, I didn't..."

He gulped it and cough. Strong drink it was and holy crap, the shock cleared some of the muzziness. He shook his head to clear it some. "I'm okay, it just caught me wrong. "

"Jesus." Seb leaned in, sliding an arm over his shoulder, fingers spreading against his back. "Fuck. I'm sorry."

He couldn't be the pissy boyfriend, he just couldn't with Seb sounding like that. Too close to the edge. "Maybe we could duck out early or something?"

"I punched you, and you want to go home?" Yeah, that was the long and short of it. Plus, the world had narrowed to two for Seb, while the rest of the place was a wash of murmurs and reaction. 

"Pretty much," John said. "You didn't mean it, you're just..." He waved his hand a bit uselessly trying to express that Seb was wound up beyond rational limits.

Which was hard to express without accidentally triggering Seb off because he was wound up beyond rational. He was usually wound up when he was doing those big social events, because it was a strain, because it was a lot to juggle, but at least he usually feigning relaxed and the tenor was different. This time, though... "Okay. Yeah. We'll finish up and go."

"Yeah, when you are ready," he said forcing a smile of sorts. 

The Russians were looking very uncomfortable, and Andreyev looked frankly terrified at what he had precipitated. Good. Seb's fingers curled against his jaw for a moment, lingering, and then he pulled back, stood up and straightened up. Put a hand back through his hair, trying to put himself back together. "So, your 'deal'."

"It is... fine, " Andreyev said hastily. "Whatever you said, we agree." John had to stop from snorting to himself at that. He gently rubbed his jaw and glanced up as Irene leaned over him, pressing some ice in a plastic bag to his jaw. 

"Well, John, you took that like a pro -- maybe I was wrong about the roles in your relationship."

Very funny. And he had Fredericks looking at him sideways as he stood beside his boss, reading cues, probably deciding that retirement was an excellent idea. "Good. Don't you *ever* renege on another deal again." 

There was a bit more back and forth, and then Seb started to finish out the night by letting people walk up to him, back to John, giving John some distance. 

Irene was still lingering, watching them all. John poked at his jaw and cheek, finding it pulpy in a surprisingly large area. No doubt it was going to be one of those things that looked impressive. He shifted slightly, looking at Irene while he waited. "Something you want to say?" he said in a low voice

"Just when you disappoint me, John, you surprise me all over again." She arched one eyebrow beautifully at him. It was all he needed to know to guess that she'd pinged, at least a little, to what was going on.

"Mm." He smiled at her. "Well, obviously I enjoy surprising you."

He enjoyed surprising Seb more of course, and Sherlock. Sherlock was damn difficult to surprise though. God, his head was still spinning, so he just laid, propped mostly upright by the sofa itself while Seb seemed to be making quick progress.

"He's leaving the business, isn't he? My god, John. Maybe the hollow man isn't so hollow after all." Her eyes were dancing.

"He never has been," he said quietly. "Just broken. And now he has a reason to mend."

"That's terribly romantic." And she was smirky about it, but. Maybe John was the romantic one of the two of them, but Seb had his moments as well. It was better than just friends with benefits, or flatmates who fucked when it was convenient, before Seb had moved most of his stuff into John's bedroom and given up all pretence of occupying Sherlock's former space.

He smiled. "Like you didn't aide and abet. Thank you by the way."

"Well, if that's how he is *after* that, it's a miracle he ever left the flat in the first place." She was still hovering by his shoulder, watching him quickly working the crowd. "I thought you'd chickened out."

"He went to therapy today," John admitted quietly. "And I wouldn't chicken out for what he needed."

"How was it?" She tilted her head slightly. "I'm fascinated by how the kinky and the non kinky relate long term."

"I love him. It gives me pleasure to give him pleasure," John said frankly. "I can enjoy it in that way."

She shifted the icebag off of his jaw again, and looked at it with a grimace flickering across her eyes. "John Watson, Romantic for geniuses."

He huffed an amused chuckle. "Yeah, I guess that smart is sexy. You should know."

She chuckled as well, replacing the ice pack against his skin. "Well, yes. But there are no leaves up that particular beautiful, brilliant tree." 

Seb was circling back, still looking guilty and tense, and Fredericks was still shadowing him. "I think we should call it a night. Fredericks, have at. And I'll see you tomorrow, 2pm."

"Good to go," John said getting up and swaying a little. "Speak to you soon Irene." He moved over to Seb.

Fredericks nodded, turning towards the group. "You heard the Colonel," he was saying as they headed out of ear shot. "You come through me now."

Give himself distance, give himself an easier few months. Seb moved to steady John. He didn't have a cigarette in hand, but he looked tense, tired, jaw tight. But he slid an arm around John's waist as they walked. "I'm sorry."

"Hey, it's okay, we talked about this," John said. "I'm okay, I knew what I was doing.".

"I wasn't in control. I." Seb's fingers flexed against the fabric of John's jacket. "Mhn. That mostly went all right."

"Come on, let’s get in the car," John murmured. "I was ready but even on a glancing blow ,that made me see stars."

"I'm sorry." They headed for the car, doggedly, with just the usual driver. The body guard, Frank, had stayed behind, which was as much a symbolic transfer of power as it was Seb's way of getting a report back afterwards on the conversations he'd missed.

John let them into the car. "Stop apologising," he said, getting his fingers around the braid. "You reacted, that's all."

Seb licked his bottom lip, and let John get into the car first, looking over his shoulder as he did so. "I could've concussed you."

"Well, I have a habit of that sort of thing." When Seb slid in next to him, he leaned over and kissed him. "I'm not afraid of you Seb."

"I know you're not. Believe me, I know." He halfway laughed, but it was comfortable and Seb was still relishing in the closeness. "Jesus. Let's go home." 

"Yeah, it's pretty screwed up but you did do it?" John half asked half stated. "Passed over responsibility?"

"It's done. I'm keeping Adam's Defence." Seb slid his arm behind John's back carefully. "And the money, of course."

"Well you know how I like to fritter away your hard earned cash," John said with a smile, kissing him again.

That made Seb's smile spread a little, and he could feel him relaxing slowly. Slowly. "Uh-huh, gold digger. Buying remaindered lamb at TESCO, tea on sale."

"Shocking, and from a knight of the realm too," he teased. "You’re wound up Seb, relax."

"When we get home." His eyes were scanning the roads as they drove. It didn't matter that Seb's driver had been his driver back from Jim's time. He was still making sure they were going the right way. "I promise to stop apologizing."

"Really?" John pretended surprise. "And I thought we were doing this for my benefit."

"I *punched* you," Seb reiterated quietly, fingers stretching uneasily. "Because you startled me."

"I know, and I've taken worse for less," he said. "We agreed to this, love..."

"I know. I still lost control. I would've done that if we *hadn't* agreed just then. I can't do that anymore. It's not... Sustainable." And neither was the black-ops work for Mycroft, but that was another few years for Seb. And they'd cross that bridge when they got there, too.

By then with any luck it would have naturally become something else, different interests that would fill the gap but one bit at a time. "I know, I do know how to read you, Seb. I touched your arm, knowing you would go off in my face and thought I was ready to duck. You're just... quicker than I was anticipating." John gave a wry smile. 

"Flattery." He leaned into John, returned a kiss or two. It wasn't a terribly urgent feeling, but he was pretty sure it could become that if the drive had been longer than it actually was. They were too close to home already.

"Mm, it's not like I don't know you pull punches on me when we spar." He was better than he had been, fitter now he had been able to start training with his leg mobile again.

Seb exhaled against his cheek, and was quiet for a moment. Finding words quiet. "Yeah, I do. Because it's practice, not life or death."

"I bet you didn't with Moriarty," John said softly. "Because everything was life and death with him. I take it as you caring Seb, proof of it, not some slight on me."

He got a quiet thoughtful noise in response, and Seb pressed another lingering kiss while their car rolled to a stop, and Seb started to automatically unfasten his seatbelt. "Okay. I'm still going to fuss over your jaw."

"Fussing I can deal with. And any other attention you want to give me." He was feeling pretty turned on now.

It was something of a victory lap, after all, with the driver opening their door and both of them disentangling for a moment to get out, to get into 221b. "I'm going to be substantially more yours, so..."

"Mmm, well I'd like to be more yours as well," John said as they got out. Seb was just so physical, in the way that Sherlock was cerebral.

They stood there in the dark for a moment while Seb fished his keys out, got the door open. Only then did the car drive off, while Seb pulled John into the flat. "I thought that didn't have to be said."

"It gets dangerous to assume things don't need to be said," John said. "I could assume that you know I'm not going to let you go under any circumstance, but it's good to hear it isn't it?"

He didn't have to hit to get something to resonate with Seb. A well placed word was just as effective, and he could see the effect immediately. "Yeah." He backed John up to the wall, which would make getting up the stairs a little challenging, his hands on John's hips, expression thoughtful. "I love you." 

He couldn't help but smile at that. Seb didn't say it often, not aloud. He could almost see the thought process of wondering whether John knew he loved him or not. "You know there's a more private wall you can have me against. Mrs Hudson probably doesn’t need to know everything."

"She's at least extrapolated the rest." Seb let him go, though, nudging John up the stairs ahead of him.

"I don't need her to see details," he replied with a smile. "If anyone asks, it was an unruly, if very sexy patient at the clinic that did this."

"I agree with unruly," Seb said. His fingers found John's side as soon as they reached the top, which was a shame because there was still the flat to go into. And another flight of stairs for real privacy.

"Time to get in to bed pretty quick," John replied speeding up. Things were good, things were very good if Seb was thinking that way.

It was easier when it was just the two or three of them, when they were inside a familiar building, on a familiar path. Seb's nerves went down, and his ability to focus went up, and that included focusing on John.

He was fine with that, he wanted Seb to feel the relief of not having to do everything all the time. He needed to get out of that option to be able to see others that would be better for him. Up into the flat and Sherlock there looking at him practically rolling his eyes. "Really John."

"I need to work on my reflexes. Now if you'll excuse us, I think Seb wants to shag me up against a wall... if I'm lucky."

"Plan didn't survive contact with reality, but it had the same end." Seb shrugged out of his coat, and threw it in the general direction of the coat rack, before his hands were on John again.

"Clearly I need to look into sound proofing," Sherlock replied. "Go, go. Leave some hot water for the rest of London."

John grinned and headed off up the stairs.

He heard Seb leave a lingering, "Thanks", to Sherlock, before he started up the stairs after John.

He barely made it in their door before Seb was on him, pouncing like his life depending on it, and he was laughing at him because it was going to be hot, rough and urgent and he wanted that so much it he was tugging at clothes, belts, anything.

Just to get undressed quickly, to get Seb’s hands on him as he was pushed up against the wall again. There was only a faint edge to the motions, and his own laughter encouraged Seb to relax. The slow suction of lips against the line of his neck made John groan, tipping his head back.

He loved knowing Seb wanted him that much he couldn't wait, he loved the fact that sometimes it was like this, sometimes it was long and slow, sometimes it was everything they both needed and he did not want to lose that. And with Seb stepping back from the work that nearly got him killed, then he stood more of a chance of keeping it longer.

* * *

Once they’d started taking cases, there'd been all of three cases that interested Sherlock, and two of them he'd solved during the initial interview -- including a missing racehorse and a murder that Lestrade had brought Sherlock, sure that he'd be stumped. Within ten minutes, he had told Greg to where to pick the horse up, and who out of all of the interviews had killed the man.

The chemical industrial sabotage up to the north ended up being a much more interesting case for Sherlock.

It was on the verge of causing a nationwide scandal, partly because it was potentially in medical supplies and there didn't seem to be a motive. At least not at first. It had been ignored initially as an "accident" but then it had happened again, and again and then apparently spread to other production complexes. Then a reporter got a hold of it and it was like tap-dancing on thin ice.

People *trusted* medical supplies. People *needed* them, and they needed them when they were most vulnerable. And the need to stop there being a riot or a crackdown on precious generics medication manufacturing was why Mycroft had prodded his brother into action.

John knew from the moment that Sherlock looked at the folder of information and frowned that they had a case, and this time it was involving Seb, who had his own talents in looking for patterns of information and insider knowledge of the sort of means to pull it off. The journey up to the manufacturing complex had passed by in an amusing fashion with the two of them sniping at each other in the car.

"Look, you two look at the people and I'll look at their manufacturing line. There's an injection point before packaging or maybe *in* the packages where they're getting the contaminants in." And a thousand eyes and cameras watching, and it was still occurring.

It meant it was more subtle than an employee surreptitiously injecting them with a hypodermic. "Have you confirmed it is an injection?" John asked. "Because that makes a difference."

"No. No, that's the police's assumption, but that's so... prosaic. So risky. People pay attention to needles, they're out of the norm," Sherlock pointed out, leaning forward up between the seats.

"So it could be something like... a patch?" John asked plucking ideas out of thin air.

"Huh, film. Film added into a film already utilized in the packaging process..."

"Exactly. Hard to tell it's been added if they choose the right step. Question is still 'why'," Seb agreed.

"Are we sure there have been no demands?" John asked "Because this is exactly the sort of thing that ends up as blackmail. It's not a disgruntled employee sort of level."

"None stated or recognised as such." Sherlock sat back, but his fingers were drumming on the back of John's seat. "Go on, I'm enjoying listening to you two bandy this about, this *why* before we even get to a what."

"And what's wrong with that? Jim always had a why before a what. It's just the stupid ones that don't recognise their own why."

"This isn't stupid," John said. "Someone who can get a contaminant into a specific batch of medical supplies, without any detection is not stupid. So there is a motive of sorts... money, revenge...not sure how love works into it?"

"Love of money?" Sherlock offered rhetorically. "Why ruin a company?"

"Is the company even the aim or the public reaction?" John asked. "If they are trying to take down a company there is likely to be a personal motive. If they are aiming at panic and distrust it is more likely to be political or terrorist activity."

"Products targeted have been varied, but the same company," Seb pointed out as they coasted up to the security gate outside the factory. He rolled his window down. "Either it's personal, or their security is lax. Hello."

"ID please," the guard said. He looked alert enough, but guards also looked alert after a break in. Sharpest guards in the world then. "Sherlock Holmes, Colonel Moran, Dr John Watson," John said beside him. "We're expected."

Invited, looked to as a solution to the problem. Seb still offered his identification, because he was a little less recognisable than say *Sherlock*, who looked vaguely engaged as he acknowledged the man. "Interesting. How many unexpected individuals do you get a day?"

"A few." The security Guard said. "Mainly kids messing about from the town. Daring each other to try and sneak in. Haven't managed it yet. "

That they knew of anyway. John looked at the man thoughtfully. "Get many ex-employees up here?"

"Sometimes. We don't have a lot of ex-employees, really. Not a lot of turnover, very strong community here in the factory. Sometimes people come back 'round for lunch with the old crew, you know?"

"Without a pass? Or you just let them in?" John asked. There was a loophole right there. They would need a list of ex-employees who had been in through the critical period. "Tell me they at least sign in."

"They sign in." He sounded almost offended, and John was willing to bet they didn't ever sign out. 

"Right. Where's visitor's parking? We'll be back to look at your signatory list. Do you keep it here or inside the office?"

"Visitors have to go to reception, they sign in there as well," he said and waved them through. "Follow the signs and bear right."

As they pulled forward, John snorted. "How does he even know we are the people on the list?"

"He doesn't," and "Of course he doesn't," overlapped, and Seb laughed first, shaking his head as they headed for the signs. "And that assumes that all visitors are good actors and go where they're told to go."

"That too. They might have patrols or something but seriously, its the sort of security that relies on people looking suspicious to be filtered out," John said smiling at the pair of them. Yeah, he liked this vibe. They were all in resonance, focused in the same direction -- Seb was lighter and Sherlock was exhilarated.

"Of course, if you're trying to not draw attention to yourself unless you're the self sabotaging sort, you'll blend right in," Sherlock agreed. As soon as Seb had parked, Sherlock was out of the door, leaving them to follow.

John didn't even hurry. Sherlock seemed more comfortable as he swept forward, coat flapping. "He'll have offended three people by the time we catch up," he said dryly.

"Only three? He's off his game," Seb remarked, hitting the clicker to lock the car. "I'm about to utter the words I know I should never say, but I think we should split up to cover more ground."

"Seriously?" John was a little bit uncomfortable about that. "Seb..." He was still twitchy about Seb being too long out of his sight.

And so was Seb, which made John feel less like a crazy over protective boyfriend and more like one who needed to be as over-protective as he wanted to be. Seb nudged his arm against John's shoulder. "Just go on ahead and I'll make nice with the pass office and catch up with you."

"Fine." Now he was going to worry about both of them. But Seb knew what he wanted and if he was the cat he teased him about he would be all wide eyes and prowling movements.

He hurried after Sherlock who he could tell had pissed off the receptionist already.

"I'm sorry sir, you will have to wait until Mr Forbes can come down and see you."

"We were *told* to be here -- not at the invite of your Mr. Forbes, who seems incapable of running a functioning factory without piling up a *body* count from his drugs, as well as causing a nationwide panic. I'm unsure what his presence will do aside from provide me a verbal target."

"Uh, what Mr Holmes is trying to say is that we have an appointment with your Executive Director, Mr Adams," John said smoothly. "Sorry, he get's over-focused on the case sometimes."

The woman on the other side of the desk looked not at all amused, but looked at her computer screen in a very sorting through emails way. After a moment, and Sherlock drumming his fingers, she declared, "He'll be down in a moment."

"Sit down," John said to Sherlock. "Try not to get us thrown out before we've even seen the man giving us the case, okay?"

"And I'm very excited that the British government is all but holding a gun to his head because the faster we solve this, the better for everyone, as well as the pharmaceutical industry." He sat down, though, legs crossed, eyes scanning the room sharply.

He was in a mode he recognised where he missed nothing, and categorised everything. "Seb is..." he gestured randomly. "Doing Seb things."

"Boring workmanly things like logistics tails and log files." Sherlock glanced at the woman behind the desk again and added, "It's a wonder he doesn't masturbate to it. I've seen those powerpoints."

"Well I could tell you details of our sex life," John said with a smile. "But you keep telling me you already know."

He was probably doing that, but he was also probably sneaking around, doing a recon because that's what he did. Checking likely access points, security blind spots and the like. It was second nature to him.

And if things took a bad turn, it was very useful to know. Seb'd push it as far as he could get away with, and he was damn good at feigning ignorance and doing the I didn't know I was supposed to be back here game. "Far too much," Sherlock agreed.

There was a ding from a lift, and a well turned out man stepped out. From the look of surprise the receptionist gave, John realised Mr Adams did not usually come to meet his visitor in person. "Mr Holmes and ... Sir John Watson isn't it? I'm Executive Director Adams."

And status was obvious important to him. Most people didn't associate him in the flesh with what he regarded to be "fictional Sir John".

It was generally a rough leap between the two, given how he presented himself and acted. He could see Sherlock sizing the man up, and keeping quiet about it as well. Important then, or useful for later. 

"Excellent. My brother told me you'd meet with us about this unfortunate little incident..." Sherlock stood up, hand out in a greeting gesture he seldom bothered with.

That was interesting. Sherlock rarely shook hands unless he was trying to pick up a clue or test something.

"He assured me that you would resolve our little problem rapidly," he said with a thin smile. "With discretion of course."

Yeah, not a chance. "Of course," John nodded seriously.

"Absolutely," Sherlock agreed, smiling a bit too much. "Where would you like for us to start? I'm assuming you've thought of a few key points already. How has turnover been?"

"I think we should discuss this in my office don't you?"

Not good then if he didn't mention it in front of the staff. "Of course, that makes perfect sense. Sherlock will no doubt want to look at a few things."

"Afterwards, yes." He lifted an eyebrow at John, because Seb was no doubt exploring and yes, giving him room to roam was better. "Your office then, sir?"

"Indeed." They were ushered upstairs and Sherlock had pandered to the man in some way, almost placating. That was intriguing. The office was suitably affluent, everything was a status symbol. If business hadn't been good, it had been before to afford all this.

"Mr Adams, what can you tell you of your own investigations," John asked.

"Nothing, and that's the unfortunate part of it. There's nothing I've kept separate from what the media got a hold of. It's all out there in the wind I'm afraid. We've reviewed every camera, interviewed every employee. No one saw anything out of the ordinary. I thought it was a hoax at first." He sat down, and gestured for them to sit, but Sherlock remained standing.

Until the first casualties. "Can I ask what testing you've done at what stages of production?" John queried. He wondered what Seb was doing, but Sherlock was studying the man carefully and it made him try and look for what miniscule clues he was missing.

Seb was an adult and could fake his way through a factory floor with ease. "All stages of prepackaging, of course." He glanced to Sherlock, but was addressing John.

"You've tested the compounds at each stage then. I need a copy of the test results," Sherlock finally broke in. 

"Who did the tests?" In the back of John’s mind was the fact that if the testers were in on it, then you could have trace everywhere and it wouldn't mean anything.

"First my private lab, and then the government lab. Nothing contains a trace of the toxic chemicals that have actually been in the product. I've had to shut the production lines entirely until we can work out what's going on..."

"Presumably you were doing quality testing regularly before hand. Did you establish when the contamination took place?" John asked playing the distraction while Sherlock did his thing.

Wandered a little, studying the room. "I know what the first lot was. And of course we performed rigorous testing, it was never not an option. These are medications that people rely on to--"

"Did you have a picture hanging here?" Sherlock asked, gesturing to a void in the wall.

"...yes," Adams replied, looking little derailed. "Well, my predecessor did. He took it with him when he left."

"Your predecessor?" John asked.

"Dr Collis, one of the original founders of the firm," he said. "He... retired earlier this year."

Interesting hesitation there. "He was forced to retire," Sherlock offered, looking at the empty space. "Because of money, or...?"

"There were incidents in the boardroom," Adams grimaced a little. "He was...somewhat too sure of his position and how he could relate to other members of staff as a result, if you know what I mean. There had been problems we had to ...pay-off. The board were forced to issue an ultimatum, early retirement or the next sexual harassment tribunal he would be on his own, and we would shop him in, every single one of us. We all had evidence, he was not at all discrete."

"That's unfortunate." Sherlock tilted his head a little, watching the man. "How long did he work here?"

"Dr Collis? Fifteen years I believe. He was a founder," Adams sat back a little. "I was appointed by the board."

"And your background, as compared to his, sir?" Sherlock moved away from the vacant spot, looking keenly thoughtful now. Suspect?

"I have worked with the company for seven years," he replied and looked at John. "Does this have any relevance?"

"It could do Mr Adams. Obviously a prime suspect would be a disgruntled employee, or in this case partner in the firm," John suggested.

"Do you have his contact information?" Sherlock asked, polite again as he tucked his hands behind his back.

Sherlock being polite; something was definitely up. "I'll have my PA find it out for you," Mr Adams said. "So what do you need to see?"

"Your facilities. Also, a record of your supply chain. We have an expert in those sort of things who'll be consulting with us. If you've changed suppliers recently, particularly since Dr. Collins' departure."

Sherlock definitely had an idea. "Of course." He leaned forward and pressed the intercom. "Valerie, would you come in please?"

"Of course Mr Adams. " A woman in her early forties came in and she was definitely the organisation behind the throne, he could tell that immediately.

"Valerie, I want you to give these gentlemen any information they ask for," he said.

"Of course Mr Adams," she said calmly.

"Excellent. We'll be back up to see you if we have further questions," Sherlock told him, before turning to give his attention to Valerie. "Good afternoon. We're going to require access to all of your records."

"This way, sir." She was all brisk efficiency. She had a certain something that reminded John a little of Irene, which was interesting in itself. That he recognised it, that he was able to place it at all. But was she a thwarted dominatrix, just a little kinky, doing it on the side, or just putting up a very particular front to get through her work day?

Either way, John paid attention as she led them out of Mr. Adams' office and to another, smaller area. "What can I help you with, sirs?"

"Uh, we'd like to see your quality assurance records, the test results of the investigation and your supplier records for the last few months to start with," John said glancing at Sherlock to see if there was anything else. 

"And the same data from, oh, one year before the good Doctor was ousted by the board," Sherlock added, slowly nodding as he looked around her office as well. "Did you know the man well?"

"Dr Collis? Oh yes," she replied. "I have been with the company a long time. Everyone knew Dr Collis." There was just an inflection to her voice that made John think she was saying 'knew about' Dr Collis in her head. 

"What was he like?" John asked. 

"Well, he was a gentleman from another era," she said carefully. "A very intelligent man, but he preferred the development side of things really." 

Older man with a chauvinist tendency then. Had Valerie been sidelined as a glorified secretary under his regime then? Likely. There was probably a collection of people in the building who were either angry or relieved that the man was gone. Given that she was choosing words carefully, it was probably things she'd had to say a hundred times in defence of a job that she very likely needed. John knew all about biting his tongue when higher up was acting daft, or 'from another era'. 

"So he was very involved in product development?" Sherlock asked, fishing out his cell phone to fire off a quick text.

"Oh yes, he established some of our leading brands," she said. "Always liked to be down in the labs rather than in his office. It was a company in joke that you would never find Dr Collis in his office." And you didn't cross the Director who had a habit of turning up in your office alone. John started to have a nasty feeling about how much this Dr Collis had managed to get away with over the years. Valerie was calling up documents and sending them to print one after another. 

Sherlock glanced at his phone when it quietly buzzed to life, and then pocketed it again. "Were there any particular offices he was *really* fascinated by?" Sherlock pressed, glancing sideways at John. They were both thinking in the same direction, though John was sure Sherlock was five lightyears ahead of him.

"He, um..." Valerie smiled hesitantly. "First place I would try was R&D lab 3. He was good friends with the Professor -- Professor Price."

"And what does Professor Price do?" The next question, John knew, would be less of a question and more of a demand that they were headed to R&D Lab 3, and never mind the reams of paperwork that was printing off of Valerie's computer. Maybe John could collect them up, or...

Her door opened, and Seb stepped in. "Hello. Sherlock said he needed a paper-pusher up here."

That was convenient. He grinned at Seb. "Got some documents for you to look through for patterns.. "he said gesturing at the pile.

"Professor Price does the research and development. New compounds and so on. Establishing patents for the company and the testing," Valerie answered.

"Fascinating. And which way is that office?" Sherlock asked, gesturing towards her door, while Seb slipped further into the door, hands in his pockets.

"Ground floor, " she said. "It's signed there to lab 3. You can't miss it."

"Colonel Moran is going to stay and look over your print outs ," John said even as Sherlock was whirling to the door.

“Hello." He smiled at Valerie, turning it up a notch in politeness. It was while they were leaving that John felt his phone buzz.

He got it out, glancing at the screen even as he said in a low voice to Sherlock. "What was that all about? Mr polite? You even called him sir."

It looked like a series of photo messages from Seb, and when John started to go through them, they were all location shots of the supply line. "It's obviously a formerly inside job," Sherlock said as he led the way. "Subterfuge has its place."

"Did Seb send you these as well?" he asked flashing him the phone screen to be on the safe side.

"Yes. He's very efficient, and I've already located an interesting spot. Seventh picture -- do you see how the equipment is cleaner?"

"New supplier?" John half stated half queried. "Maybe the new unit came pre-contaminated?"

But then they would have picked that up in testing surely.

"Or a new packaging *process* that allowed this to occur," Sherlock countered, jogging down the metal stairs.

John clattered down after him, feeling the tingle of anticipation he got when Sherlock was on to something. "Sounds like you have an idea already Sherlock."

"New manufacturing process injects a *wide* range of factors, and makes me wonder what else has changed, and since when. Through whom. And which of these people have ties back to Dr. Collis?" He glanced over his shoulder at John, starting towards the lab spaces first -- where they might get answers to aid the pictorial evidence before actually getting to the equipment,

"So you are talking... inside job maybe. Disgruntled Collis, wants to bring down the company...why? Just for revenge?"

"You say that, John, as if you've never contemplated something over the top to make a slight feel better." Sherlock paused outside of the door. "Yes, I think it could be something that petty, but there's more than the sexual harassment -- if he was a man from another time, he'd also feel shame at getting caught in his own mess, at not having hidden it well enough, at being *findable*. No, this is something else."

"Patents maybe? If he was the person filling for patents that would have a direct impact on the business if he messed them around," John said having to lengthen his stride to keep up. "They were probably used to covering up the other unless he did something like get someone pregnant."

"Get someone pregnant. That's an interesting phrase." Sherlock glanced over his shoulder briefly, as if to warn John not to tarry. "I wonder if the woman in question was fired as well. Or kept on, in case of a law suit. So many ways that useless sordid tale could go."

"It's the sort of scandal they can't exactly hush up," John said and then had a horrible thought that perhaps they had forcibly got rid of the problem. He'd certainly have access to drugs that would induce a miscarriage. Christ, he was getting ahead of himself. All they had was hearsay about the man.

And an interest in research and development. Damning, that. "Anything can be hushed up, if you care to. Here we are."

Lab 3 was pretty much state of the art, a miniature complex within the complex. John noted the plush conference room, the open labs, and sealed labs. He saw equipment that made his mouth water. This lab had definitely had the favour of the high ups.

"Excuse me? Is Professor Price in?" he asked a technician.

"He's in the back. It's a clean space, though..." Not making silicon wafers clean, but he understood the need to keep contaminants out. 

"We need to speak to him," Sherlock said. "Mr. Adams mentioned he was available, in regards to the investigation."

"I'm sure you've got an intercom system. Could you buzz him?" John asked. "Your director has asked us to investigate the company problem and we need to ask some questions."

"Of course." The guy looked peeved, but shifted, moving on his wheelie chair to his other desk to hit the intercom on. "Sir? Visitors for you, a Mr...?"

"Holmes, Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Watson," John said. "We'd like to ask a few questions."

The fellow turned the intercom off, and moved back to his own desk. "So, he'll be back in."

"Thank you... Dave," John said managing to pick out the name on his ID. "You do research and development too?"

"Yeah. We're all shut down right now except for the bigger things, so I'm just crunching old data." He sounded pissy about it."

John made a sympathetic face. "Sounds interesting," he said with a faint smile. "I hate the reports and records part of the job. Bores me rigid. What old data are you working on? Anything that at least keeps you awake?"

"No." The man pulled a bit of a face, looking towards the door. "Just boring inert compound data."

"Inert compound data? That does sound pretty tedious," John said making it look like he didn't really care about the answer.

"Inerts are just that," he shrugged. "Still, they all have to be tested against each other."

"Oh yeah?" John said actually started to feel bored by the conversation but Sherlock had just turned around and fixed the man with one of his intense stares.

"You don't care," Dave sighed, turning back to his screen.

"Well, he might not care, because he's a philistine," Sherlock cut in. "But I'm fascinated."

"Fascinated by inert compounds? Man, I'd hate to see your social life," Dave said. "We have to catalogue possible reactants to any of our products. We can only use inerts as carriers, or come in contact with them in the process obviously. The computer guys in Lab 2 run complex algorithms to identify possibles for the new products."

"Could I see them?" Sherlock asked, voice tilting a little.

"What the list of reactants, inerts or the computer guys?" Dave smirked a little. Professor Price was emerging only Sherlock seemed to have dismissed his presence already.

"Good afternoon Professor, sorry to disturb you,"

So John could handle him, he supposed. "The list of inerts, and perhaps the computer guys. Are they versed in the inerts as well?"

"No, I'm sure it's important. I'm Doctor Price, how can I help you?"

"The Director has us investigating the contamination incident. We're just following up on any possible leads," John said. "We were told that you might be able to give us information with regard to...any patent issue there might have been." He needed to feel the guy out before he went in about someone who might be a close friend.

"Patent issues?" He asked it slowly, looking thoughtfully as he tilted his head up to the ceiling for a moment. "What sort?"

"Have there been any disputes over patents on products, recent products?" John asked. "Or ex-employees feeling they were done out of their fair share?"

"Oh, well, Dr. Collis was involved in a dispute, but the decision was that since he was supervisory, he shouldn't have been involved."

"In what way was he involved?" John asked wondering what the hell Sherlock was asking Dave the technician.

It was low and quiet and sounded fascinating, more fascinating than making nice with the professor. "He spent a lot of time down here. He was always very hands on with his products."

"Did he regard them as his products?" he said. "Before he left that is... I guess they wouldn't be his now would they?"

"He still regarded them as," the professor agreed quiet candidly. "Put enough time into something, and you feel you have a right to it, the profits, whatnot. The patents, yes, though clearly the work had been done by his employees and already patented between them and the *company* which was all good and well for him when he *was* the company."

"So after he left have you seen him since?" John asked. "Or heard anything about him?"

Sherlock was still engrossed, and apparently Dave the technician's new best friend. "No. He was rather... well informed that he wasn't welcome back. I was somewhat relieved, given--"

"Excellent. John, we're going." Going where, he didn't know, but Sherlock was heading for the door without waiting. 

"Relieved given what?” John asked hastily, trying to move and get that last bit of information.

"I was questioning some of his methodology. There were shortcuts he wished to take." He looked startled that they were leaving.

"Thanks Professor... We might be back soon, appreciate the time," John said as he had to half jog out of the door after Sherlock. "Sherlock... Sherlock, come on, what have you got?" he asked as he caught up.

"I've solved the gist of it. I'm sure of it. Is this a record for such a seemingly complicated crime? I'm sure it is." He was forging off into the factory.

"Wait wait... Sherlock, just stop," John said trying to halt the headlong rush.. "Is speed of the essence, because we have to find evidence. Greg won't be impressed if we present him with a solution and no evidence. "

Sherlock stopped, and with a hard sigh gestured up towards the second floor. "Moran will find the evidence, and the rest of it is in the inert algorithms. Don't you *see*, John? The new packaging machine, inert chemicals..."

"The new packaging machine?" John queried. "Okay so what one of the inert chemicals is not as inert as it should be?"

"Oh, we've got another budding genius! Yes, this is why they were so furtively testing inerts against themselves! The proof will be all there in the documentation. The question is which pieces, and how he knew it would work, because this is no accident. We need to frame out the how into the better why."

“So did someone suggest the supplier? Or was it just Dr Collis?" John asked.

"I'm sure it was Dr. Collis suggesting it to the company, but who told *him*? He was interested, but not a genius. He felt ownership, but in a managerial way."

"Mm, so he wanted it back, and someone gave him a means to do it," he said. "Sounds the sort of thing that Seb's organisation did."

"If it was the new empire, my brother wouldn't have asked for help. If it was a leftover of Moran's, he wouldn't have asked for help." Neither of them, then. "This is the mistake that comes with not immediately escorting employees out the door when firing them. Under armed guard."

"Someone in competition then," John suggested. "It can be the only one out there surely. Maybe someone starting out... This is something pretty individual."

"And brilliant." Sherlock's eyes looked a little keen when he said it. "Still, terribly easy to unravel, I hardly feel any triumph. If they're all going to be so poorly planned, I hope he finds another career track."

"Yeah, well I'll take it as a good thing if this person is amateurish," John said and smiled shaking his head.

"I'm sure you would," Sherlock half sneered, taking off again towards -- right, there it was. The piece of equipment John had seen in Seb’s photo.

“Okay, what are we looking for?" John asked. "Or am I standing watching your back while you look?" He got his phone out to text Seb ' new machine, inert chemical interaction = solved (apparently)' knowing he would get the sarcastic tone.

It was an excellent way to get across eyerolling in a simple text message. "I just want to *see* it." He gestured vaguely to the machine, getting in close. 

John prickled a little. "And what if someone is expecting us to find it? If someone is capable of brilliance could they not anticipate it coming undone?" he suggested.

"And what? You immediately expect it's rigged with explosives?" He looked sideways at John.

"I don't know, but I'm just saying...I don't like this," John said. "At least speak to Seb about it. He knows the sort of protocols that would happen."

“Ugh, fine, fine. *I* could tell you those protocols as well, but clearly you don't want to listen to me," Sherlock uttered, hands up in the air.

There was knowing and there was understanding it. Sherlock looked for solutions, Seb looked for threat assessment in the same way other people would casually take in the view or he might accidentally pick up a diagnosis. "Call him." John insisted. "He's a threat specialist, let him be useful."

"Ugh, yes, call him. Just get it over with," Sherlock sighed. His frustration was clear, but he also wasn't stopping John.

He actually did phone, rather than just text because he wanted to hear Seb's voice. And he didn't care if it made him an idiot. When Sherlock managed to get shot as badly as he did - heaven forbid - then he could talk about being overcautious. "Seb, any chance you can come down to the factory? Sherlock wants to look it over and I just... want someone not just focused on clues to look at it first."

"Hello to you, too. Yeah, be down in a sec. Just hang on. Thank you for your time, Ma'am. Can I -- excellent, thanks." He could hear the sound of papers, and then Seb going down the stairs he and Sherlock had taken. "It's so quiet here. Tenor of the place is off..."

"Yeah, Sherlock thinks I'm being an idiot but this is just weird. Where are the workers? " John said. "If someone is setting up a rival crime organisation... We need your eyes down here."

"Coming. What makes you think that?" Not challenging John, just asking, conferring, because he had a weird feeling about the place and so did John. It might just be good to take a few more photos, take the paperwork, and then get back to their car, the hotel room, and work it from there.

"I don't know. Like that feeling you get on patrol that makes the hairs go up on your neck. Like being watched, or something." John couldn't explain it properly, but he'd learned to listen to it.

"Oh yeah. I had that feeling when I did a circuit of the place." That Seb was staying on the phone was telling. "Couldn't see the bastard, though. I have a mad urge to just start randomly waving hello."

"Yeah, well I'm just saying if someone is watching us they might have done more. Come and help me reign Sherlock in before he implodes," John said. "He's over excited from cracking this in a couple of hours."

"And bravo on that, but yeah. Let's get out of here and swing back around en force with evidence. He can gloat then." Seb hung up, which startled John, but then he heard the familiar loping gait coming up behind him. 

"Here we go, the madman who's supposedly serving as your voice of reason." Sherlock crossed his arms over his chest, still peering at the machine. 

"Just tell me I'm being paranoid and I'll back off," John said. "Seb doesn't think I am... completely paranoid that is." 

"Seb is accepting of paranoia up to, and if it ever seems reasonable, including the use of tin foil." He had his hands in his pockets, but his posture was still as he glanced slowly around the part of the processing facility they could see. "So, the company who delivered this doesn't actually exist. It's a quick dead end."

"That makes it even more suspicious," John pointed out. "Look, let's just get the evidence and clear out of here." He couldn't shake the being watched feeling. 

"Unbelievable. It's only a dead end because you didn't follow it hard enough," Sherlock muttered, circling back towards them. "I need to get those algorithms before we leave. And don't lose any of that paperwork."

John settled for taking photos of the machine in situ, as close as he could without touching, because a machine from a non-existent company had to be forensic evidence. Lestrade would flip if they took it apart. But the three of them, they did have something, some complement of skills that just worked. Seb was looking happier than he'd ever really seen him. Sherlock was all sparkling brilliance and he knew they were making a difference.

"Do I look like I'm going to lose any of the paperwork?" Seb had it tucked up under his arm, even as he pulled out a flash drive. "For the algorithms. In case you didn't bring your own."

"Why would I, when I knew one of you would?" Sherlock asked, taking off ahead of them just after snatching it from Seb's fingers.

"He's always like this," John replied. "One day I won't bother to bring things." He smiled a little and took one last picture. It was probably an accomplice of Dr. Collis watching them but they could just stew for all he cared. He was feeling pretty invincible with Seb and Sherlock with him.

Seb nodded, waiting for John to pull away before he fell into step with him. "Yeah, but he'd kick a shit fit," Seb pointed out, still scanning.

"And life would not be worth living," John said. "Still, quickest time cracking a higher level case yet. We're good together."

"Delegation of tasks." Seb slid his arm over John's shoulders, checking over his left shoulder. There was a fellow with a dirty union jack baseball cap pushing a handcart full of old boxes. "Yeah, I've seen like. What, eight employees in here since we got here? Nine if we count security."

"Seems like they have the place down to a skeleton staff. Mind you, with manufacturing halted..." It made sense. He glanced at the man taking an absent picture of him as he had the camera function still on.

Might as well. Seb was staring, and finally just nudged John to move. His voice pitched low. "We're getting Sherlock and getting out of here."

He nodded, mildly discomfited by that tone and they hurried to catch up with Sherlock who was already causing havoc with Dave the technician.

"Got everything?"

"Scarcely," Sherlock sighed, while Seb shoved the paperwork at Sherlock and started to unbutton his coat. 

"Hey, that guy you've got on the floor, fellow with the ballcap...? He been here long?" There was always a tone to Seb's voice that made John go alert, and it was heartening to see Sherlock pull at the door before the man even had a chance to answer.

He looked at Seb and Sherlock even as Dave the technician started muttering about him not really knowing. Something made him prickle again. The man was gone when they leaned out the doorway and looked again. John pulled out his phone and scrolled back to the picture he took, before dropping the phone from nerveless fingers.

There was no way. 

There was just no way, but looking at it on the screen, John was sure it was a perfect shot of Jim Moriarty grinning from beneath the brim.

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not over yet, but consider this a long break before the next part. Playing with John and Seb has been an unexpected level of fun for us.


End file.
